


Down to Size

by KreweOfImp



Category: Supernatural
Genre: And That Is Saying Something, BDSM, Brat Dean, Castiel Is So Done, Cockroaches, Corporal Punishment, Crack, Dean Has Adventures, Dean is a Little Shit, Dom Castiel, Dom/sub, Domestic Discipline, Fluff and Crack, Humor, Interspecies Friendships, M/M, Men of Letters Bunker, Porn With Plot, Rats, Sam Is So Done, Seriously It's The Most Ridiculous Thing I've Ever Written, Shrinking, Spanking, Sub Dean, Team Dean's Red Ass, What The Fuck Am I Writing, What The Fuck Are You People Writing, how is that a tag
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-05-21
Updated: 2018-04-05
Packaged: 2018-06-09 20:03:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 16
Words: 84,831
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6921097
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KreweOfImp/pseuds/KreweOfImp
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“I told you not to touch that! Why don’t you ever fucking listen to me?”</p><p>Sam’s booming voice is so painfully loud that Dean actually has to slap his hands over his ears, craning his neck to look up at his brother.</p><p>Way up.</p><p>Way, way up.</p><p>Like…miles up.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A Small Problem

**Author's Note:**

> Eternal love and gratitude go to two of my favorite humans, [phaelsafe](http://archiveofourown.org/users/phaelsafe/pseuds/phaelsafe) and [Dangerousnotbroken](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Dangerousnotbroken/pseuds/Dangerousnotbroken) (from whom the original prompt came), for beta-reading and cheerleading.

“I _told you_ not to touch that!  Why don’t you ever fucking listen to me?”

Sam’s booming voice is so painfully loud that Dean actually has to slap his hands over his ears, craning his neck to look up at his brother.

Way up.

Way, way up.

Like…miles up.

“Well,” Dean squeaks—oh, shit, he sounds like a fucking chipmunk, _not cool,_ “if you’d _mentioned_ the part where it was gonna turn me into a Smurf—“

There is a brief pause, and something about Sam’s carefully controlled face tells Dean that the hulking monster towering miles above him is restraining laughter at Dean’s squeaky little voice.  “Oh, don’t exaggerate,” Sam finally says, voice significantly quieter in deference to the size of Dean’s ears, “you’re not blue.  And I actually think the Smurfs were a little bigger than you.”

“If you will pardon me,” an icy, somehow still gravelly squeak comes from behind Dean, “I do not know what a Smurf is, but can we focus on the fact that Dean has somehow managed to _shrink us?”_

“Hey,” Dean chirps defensively, “it wasn’t actually _me_ that shrank us, it was that thi—“

_“DO NOT FUCKING TOUCH IT!”_ Sam thunders from above them, just as Dean’s miniscule hand gets within a couple millimeters of the unassuming wooden homunculus lying on its side on the floor beside them.  Both Dean and Cas cry out and recoil at the roar, which actually shakes the ground underneath them.  Pausing and taking a breath, Sam crouches down, wrestling his overshirt off and using it as a barrier to pick up the small figurine.  Dean watches it soar away with a scowl which is probably somewhat less effective than usual on a GI Joe sized face.  “Sorry,” Sam apologizes a good deal more quietly, although Dean suspects he’s really apologizing to Cas, “but for all we know it will shrink you _again.”_

“Or it might regrow us,” Dean argues, annoyed.

“Has anything _ever_ been as simple as that?” Sam demands rhetorically, forgetting to control his volume.  Dean winces again.

“Can you try to keep it down, Gigantor?  Little ear drums.”

Cas strides up beside Dean, tiny trenchcoat flapping.  He’s still not looking at Dean, presumably too annoyed.  “Sam, you clearly suspected what this object would do, as you instructed Dean not to touch it.  I do not suppose this means that you are aware of how to undo its effects?”

Sam, who was leaning close to hear Cas better, sighs deeply, and the gust of warm air knocks both Dean and Cas on their asses.  Grimacing a little, Sam rubs a hand over his face.  “Sorry again.  No, unfortunately not, Cas.  It’s gonna take some research, and I don’t think you two are gonna be much help.”

“Well, why the hell not?” Dean pipes up, offended, “I can do anything you can do!  Don’t go getting all sizeist on me, Sammy.”

“Think you can hold a book?” Sam inquires dryly, and Dean is brought up short.

Literally.

Scowling up at Sam, he remains silent, because he’s sure as hell not going to admit out loud that Sam was right.  Cas, meanwhile, finally turns to Dean, and the ferocity gleaming in his blue eyes makes Dean take a small (well, a _very_ small, he guesses) step backward.  “Unless you have anything actually helpful to say, Dean, it strikes me that you have done more than enough damage.   _Be silent.”_

Dean opens his mouth furiously to argue, then snaps it shut with a gulp as Cas advances on him a single, menacing step.  Nodding once, Cas turns back to Sam, who is watching with an expression of mild amusement on his enormous face.  “Very well, it seems that Dean and I are not likely to be of much use in researching, given that we are not currently to scale,” Dean has to bite down on his lower lip not to snicker at Cas’s choice of words, as if they were a diagram in a math book, “but do you think there is anything else helpful we can do in the meantime?”

Sam’s brows knit thoughtfully as he stares down at them.  “Honestly, Cas, I can’t think of anything right now.  I hate to say it, but I think our best bet is to put you somewhere safe—we can’t risk me stepping on you—and let you hang out while I figure this thing out.  I’d have you make phone calls, but I doubt you could be heard over the phone and I’m not sure a touchscreen would even register you.”

Cas sighs, then nods in resignation as Sam puts a hand down on the floor, palm up.  Dean stares at it, mystified, until Cas strides over and clambers atop it, frowning thoughtfully before he seats himself, presumably aiming for greater stability.  Then both he and Sam swivel their faces toward Dean, who is already shaking his head stubbornly.  “Oh, no.  No way.  I am not going to be toted around by my brother like some kind of doll, that’s— _what the fuck, Sam?!”_ His voice rises sharply in pitch as he suddenly finds himself soaring what looks like miles off the ground, jerked off his feet by the thumb and forefinger that have closed around the back of his flannel.

“We do not have time,” Sam booms censoriously from above him, “for your shit right now, Dean.  Either you get with the program or I will get you with it.  I’m not playing games with you.”

Sam stands, and Dean actually has to close his eyes for a second.  He’s not afraid of heights, per se, but suddenly having your legs flailing the equivalent of hundreds of feet off the ground would be unnerving to anybody.  When he gets himself under control enough to open his eyes again, the first thing he sees is a very smug-looking Cas, comfortably seated cross-legged on Sam’s open palm.  Dean flips him the bird, still smarting at the indignity of being toted around like this, but reconsiders at the warning look that crosses the angel’s face.  Dropping his hand, he turns his face back up to Sam, trying to ignore the stomach-roiling sight of the ground rushing by far below his dangling feet.

“Okay, okay, I’m with the program.  Can you just…put me on your other hand?  You have no idea how creepy this is.”

Sam grunts, but shifts Dean over, causing his legs to swing wildly.  Squeezing his eyes shut again, Dean waits until he feels a reasonably solid surface beneath his feet.  Two little (well, they feel normal-sized to him) hands settle around his waist, steadying him and pulling him down to a seated position.  Dean goes willingly, not opening his eyes until he’s sitting comfortably.  It’s still weird to be chilling on his brother’s hand, wind whipping through his hair and ruffling his flannel as Sam strides down the hallway and up a flight of stairs, but it’s a hell of a lot less freaky than dangling was, so he goes with it.

* * *

_Twenty Minutes Earlier_

See, what had happened was, Sam dragged them down into the archives to help him hunt for this object that he thought might help them in defeating some of the bigger monsters they encountered.  And Dean had totally listened to the part about what the thing looked like…but once Sam started getting all detailed about why he wanted it, Dean tuned out.

That’s probably where the trouble started.

They were going through the lock boxes that contained powerful objects—apparently, this particular section of the archives wasn’t as well organized as others, so they didn’t know the exact number of the correct box—and Dean was just lucky enough to be the one who spotted the thing:

“Oh, hey, Sammy, I think I’ve got it.  Damn, this little dude is _fugly.”_

“Awesome.  Remember what I said earlier, don’t—“

“No, seriously,” setting a hand on Cas’s arm to turn the angel toward him, Dean reached out for the little figure to show Cas his face.  

Another hand grabbed Dean’s elbow and jerked sharply, pulling his hand away.  Dean pivoted to face Sam, offended.

“Goddammit, Dean, I said don’t touch it!”

“Jesus, Sam, I’m not stupid, I wasn’t gonna use my bare hands, I was—“ he was lying, is what he was doing.  He had definitely been about to pick the thing up with his bare hands, and Sam damn well knew it, but never got the chance to call him on it.  Wrestling his elbow out of Sam’s grip, Dean took a hasty step backward—and directly into Cas, who was still where Dean had pulled him.  The angel staggered, Dean stumbled.  One of his hands shot out to stabilize Cas, and the other reached out to catch himself on the nearest surface.

Except the lockbox was on the nearest surface.  

Instead of closing around the edge of the table, one of Dean’s flailing fingertips brushed ever-so-lightly against the head of the don’t-touch-that.

And…well.  Thirty highly uncomfortable seconds later, he and Cas stood staring upward at a Sam who was now not so much moose sized as space-shuttle sized, at least in proportion to them.

There was a moment of silence in which all of them processed what had just happened.  Cas was the first to recover.

“Father dammit, Dean!”

Sam was next.

“I _told you_ not to touch that!  Why don’t you ever fucking listen to me?”

* * *

_Several Hours Later_

This sucks.  This absolutely, positively fucking _blows._ First Sam had the nerve to set him and Cas up in a cardboard box.  A fucking CARDBOARD box.  Like they were, what, a couple of stray kittens?  He even put a _towel_ in the bottom, announcing that he wanted them to be _comfortable,_ as if the whole thing wasn’t humiliating enough.

And now, _now_ Cas won’t even talk to him.  The angel had settled down in some lotus-position shit maybe thirty minutes ago and started to do something that looked for all the world like meditating, insisting that he needed to focus to see if he could somehow use his grace to undo the effects of the object.

“I’m bored,” Dean announces, flopping onto his side and dropping his head into Cas’s lap.  The angel’s perfectly composed features twitch slightly, but he doesn’t open his eyes or acknowledge Dean.

“Caaaaas, I’m _bored.”_  Still nothing.

Okay, fine.  If he can’t get the angel to amuse him, maybe he can amuse the angel and thus himself by extension.  It’s been an hour since Sam strode out of the library, muttering about some books that are buried in the archives that might be helpful.  And Sam can’t see into the box when he first comes into the library, anyway, so they’ll hear him from a mile away.  Rolling over, Dean nuzzles his face into Cas’s crotch.

He can’t see whether Cas’s face is twitching, but something else sure is.  Wriggling his head just right, Dean has just managed to get his teeth latched around Cas’s zipper (something he knows perfectly well drives the angel absolutely wild) when a firm hand tangles in his hair.  Dean’s first thought is that Cas has decided to get in on the action in traditionally toppy fashion—right up until the hand tightens to the point of not-good pain and pointedly peels his face away from the crotch in question.  Dean yelps.

“Ow ow ow ow _ow,_ Cas, c’mon, that _hurts!”_

“Perhaps,” the implacable voice comes from above him, “you would be less likely to find yourself under assault if you refrained from molesting the unwary.”

“Hey, you molest me all the time, and—“

“One, that is different, and two, I do not do so during times at which you have specified you are not to be disturbed.”

“Okay, whoa, how the hell is that differ—owowowowow!”  The fingers have tightened further and Dean finally has to go along with the tugging or risk losing a chunk of hair.  He lets himself be hauled back upright, squirming until Cas’s fingers release his hair.  He finally gets a good look at the angel’s face, and sees that Cas is actually _not_ mildly amused by what Dean calls antics and Cas calls bratting.  He’s not amused at all.  In fact, he looks downright ornery.

“You know perfectly well why it is different, and I assure you, if you lay another hand on me while I am attempting to fix the damage you have caused, you will regret it.  And,” he adds unnecessarily, _“not_ in the good way.”

“Fine, _fine,_ I’ll entertain myself,” Dean says hastily, scrambling out of reach.  Cas gives him a single, narrow look, not even bothering to dignify Dean’s words with an answer before once again settling into his weird meditative state.

And Dean tries.  He really does.  First he unravels a thread from the towel and uses it to play cat’s cradle—but that’s not much fun solo, and he only half remembers how to do it, anyway.  Then he tries to take a nap, but he’s way too restless.

Another twenty minutes have passed before he finally kicks back and starts a one-man karaoke show.  He starts out with Zeppelin’s Ramble On to warm up, then moves on to Metallica’s Sad But True.  By the time he hits Motörhead's Killed by Death (which he feels a special affinity for, for obvious reasons), he’s really hitting his stride, and honestly, he’s completely forgotten about the angel attempting to concentrate about twelve inches over, which is probably why his volume has risen to kind of a squeaky crescendo.

By the time he hears Cas calling, he has the distinct sense it’s not the first time the angel has called his name.  Or the second.  Or the tenth.

_“DEAN!”_

“What, _what?!”_ He pops up like a daisy, whirling around to hunt down the threat, but there’s nothing other than an extremely disgruntled angel glaring at him.

_“Must_ you make that racket?”

“Hey, those were _classics._ It’s not my fault you don’t appreciate the finer things in—“

“I am _attempting to concentrate._ If you must serenade yourself, at least do so outside the confines of the box.”  Dean is already on his feet and jumping for the nearest cardboard wall when Cas adds firmly, “but _do not leave the table."_

Dean gets a running start and manages to parkour his way to the top of the wall via the corner.  He’s scrambling over the edge as the angel’s voice chases him, “Dean!  I _mean it.”_

“Yeah, yeah, I hear you,” Dean calls back, surveying the giant obstacle course that the library’s long table has become.  Sam has helpfully left another towel resting just outside the box, having apparently decided that one towel should be more than enough for them to get comfortable on.  Dean promptly flings himself off the top of the box and tucks into a cannonball, crowing as he sails through the air.   _“Banzai!”_

He hears Cas’s irritated grunt, a little muffled from within the box, but pays it no mind as he lands comfortably in the plush towel, then rolls to its edge and drops to his feet.

Freedom.  Fuck, yeah.  And not just that, angel-sanctioned freedom!  Cas can’t give him a hard time about escaping the box when he’s the one who told Dean to do it.

And, yeah, maybe Cas told him to stay on the table, but it’s not like there’s actually anything to do up here either.  Dean is going to have to (he starts snickering as soon as the thought occurs) _think outside the box_ on this one.

Remembering something he’s pretty sure he spotted from the top of the box, Dean takes off at an easy lope, heading down the table.  Sure enough, about a third of the way along its length, much too far from the box to be heard, he finds the small plastic container of thumbtacks that they use to affix things to the bulletin board they sometimes use when they’re working through details about a case.  Sam was using the board this morning to organize information about some of the objects in the archives (hence the whole Dean and Cas being able to comfortably live in Barbie’s Dream House now), and Dean thanks his lucky stars for it, because he’s had an idea, and it’s _killer._

Snagging a pair of the thumbtacks—the ones with colored protrusions—he hefts one in each hand.  They’re just about the perfect size for his purposes.  He feels a little bad for what he’s about to do to the table, but it’s not like anyone routinely looks at its legs, anyway.

Jogging back down to the end of the table, Dean is unsurprised to hear Cas’s voice calling for him, again with a level of annoyance suggesting that this isn’t the first time.

“I thought you were trying to focus!” Dean hollers back, and he can actually hear the angel gritting his teeth when he responds.

“I _am,_ but it seemed prudent to ascertain that you had not gone AWOL first.”

“Still here, Captain Bossypants,” he calls back cheerfully, feeling safe to use the nickname Cas despises since the angel can’t actually get his hands on Dean easily at the moment.

There are a few seconds of silence before the annoyed voice calls back.  “You are treading on _extraordinarily_ thin ice, Dean Michael.”

Oh, shit.  First _and_ middle names.  “Yes, Sir,” Dean says, making sure to sound appropriately chastened.  He can get away with it, too, since Cas can’t see his face enough to spot that he is not remotely chastened.

Another moment of silence before Cas calls back.

“Better.  Now please try to keep it down.”

“Yessir,” Dean says absently, already plotting his escape.  Cas subsides into silence, but Dean waits at least a couple minutes, just for good measure, before he very quietly jogs to one of the table’s corners and peers over the edge.

A bit of careful strategizing, a few minutes of yanking on a loose thread in the towel outside the box, and a final trip down to the little plastic box to grab a third thumbtack later, and Dean is good to go.

He wraps the end of the thread carefully around one of the thumbtacks four or five times, then drives the thumbtack into the corner of the table with all his strength, anchoring the thread.  Then, using his knowledge of knots (they came in damn useful in hunting), he wraps the thread around his own waist and ties it off in a solo-climbing knot before seizing his remaining two thumbtacks.

The actual process of rappelling down the side of the table is ridiculously easy and fast.  He barely needs the thumbtacks at all, but those were more to get him back up when he’s done, anyway.

Once he’s settled on the floor, he unties the thread from around his waist and leaves it there to await his return.  Between that and the thumbtacks, it should be easy to rock climb back up to the table without Sam or Cas any the wiser about his excursion.

Now that he’s on the floor, Dean takes a minute to really look around.

The library looks a shit-ton different from five inches up than it does from slightly over six feet.  The floor that he always thought was perfectly smooth doesn’t seem like it anymore, and spaces that could be crossed in a step or two suddenly stretch out ahead of him endlessly.  It should maybe be a little intimidating, this very real evidence of just how _small_ Dean really is, but Dean Winchester is not easily intimidated.  What he _is,_ is ready for an adventure.

He didn’t actually give a whole lot of thought to what he’d do once he got off the table before now; he’d focused entirely on his escape plan.  Now that he’s actually made it, he takes a minute to consider his next step.  It doesn’t take long to decide on a course of action, because let’s face it, Dean is _always_ hungry, and Sam wasn’t kind enough to leave them with anything to eat when he fucked off.

So…kitchen.  It’s gonna be a bit of a trek at his current size, but he’s never backed down from a challenge before, and he distinctly remembers the bag of potato chips he left on the counter yesterday evening.  He could _swim laps_ in those potato chips at his current size.

Thumbtacks firmly in hand, Dean pauses long enough to cut off a good six inches of spare thread from the end of his hanging “rope,” such as it is, carefully winding it around one arm before slinging it over his shoulder.  A man should never go anywhere unprepared.  

Thus equipped, he sets off toward the library door.

Everything goes fine, for a while.  He’s made it almost all the way to the entranceway, and he figures that’s at least a third of the way to the kitchen, when the tremors start.  The ground shakes a little, once.  Then again.  Then a third time.  The tremors are rhythmically spaced, and getting stronger.  It takes Dean almost no time to put together what they must be.

_Footsteps._

He takes off at a sprint, aiming for a chair near the door, figuring he can tuck himself behind one of its legs.  His first thought is simply to get out of the way before Sam accidentally steps on him and squishes him (okay, maybe the kid had a point about putting them in the cardboard box), but he almost immediately decides it’s also probably a good idea to avoid being seen, because if (when, he guesses, now) Cas finds out that he left the table despite strict instructions not to, he’s gonna get his ass _handed_ to him.  At this point, that’s pretty much an inevitability, so he might as well have a little fun before reaping his just desserts.

He makes it in the nick of time, ducking behind one of the chair’s heavy wooden legs just as an enormous foot clomps down exactly where Dean was standing not sixty seconds ago.  He twitches a little at the thought of being splattered across the bottom of Sammy’s shoe (seriously, though, after everything they’ve survived, how would _that_ look in the obituary?), then grimaces as the booming voice breaks over him from aloft.  Jesus, Sam can _project._

“Okay, guys, nothing definite yet, but I’ve actually got a few ideas from this book I—“ Sam, who was striding across the room as he spoke (and who managed to cross a distance that took Dean at least fifteen minutes in about five seconds, damn him), suddenly cuts off, and Dean is pretty damn sure he knows why.  Sure enough… “Uh, Cas?  Where’s Dean?”

He strongly suspects Cas is speaking, but Dean can’t hear him from this distance.  His suspicions are born out a moment later as Sam responds to the unknown words.

“I don’t think so.  I don’t see him.  Give me a sec, let me make sure he didn’t crawl into the tissue box to take a nap or something.”  There is a pause, then the sound of rifling.  Dean peeks out from behind the chair leg and sees Sam digging through the various objects on the table.  After a moment he rises to his full (and way more impressive than usual, from Dean’s perspective) height and steps back down the table to peer into the cardboard box once more, shaking his massive head.  “Nope, he’s definitely not up here, Cas.  And I don’t think he fell.  There’s no way he wouldn’t have been injured, and he’s not lying under the table or anything.  How the hell did he get out of the box, anyway?”

There’s a moment of silence, in which Dean can practically hear Cas’s exasperated squeak in his mind.

“You _what?”_ Sam demands suddenly.  “Are you out of your mind?  In what universe was he ever _actually_ going to stay put?  Have you _met_ him?”

This is when it occurs to Dean that standing here eavesdropping is incredibly unwise.  Any moment now they’re going to realize that he can’t have gotten far and start looking.  And since Sam can cross enormous distances in a heartbeat (it’s actually kind of funny, Dean thinks, how fast his mind has adjusted to his size and begun thinking of perfectly normal sized objects and distances as gargantuan), it’ll probably take him about five seconds to find Dean.

The idea of being caught and returned to the box so quickly, without having any kind of really solid adventure to speak of, is incredibly depressing.  After all the trouble he went to in order to escape, he at least deserves to get a good story out of it.  At the _very_ least, he should get to wallow around in that swimming-pool-sized bag of chips.

Look, he’s under no illusions.  He knows that eventually he’s gotta go back, and he definitely knows that the instant he does, he’s going to catch it something _fierce._ Sam’s bitching he can handle—God knows he’s been dealing with that ever since the kid (the kid, Dean’s brain reminds him, who is now more than fifteen times his size) learned to talk.  Dean can tune that out easy.  Nod and smile, that’s how you deal with Sammy’s lectures.

But Cas—well, Cas is a little more _hands on,_ these days.  He’d discovered somewhere along the way that, as hard-headed as Dean is, he tends to respond to more…concrete consequences.  Dean’s not entirely sure how the hell they ended up where they are now, but he’s gotta admit it _works_.  Their relationship is the best it’s ever been, for the most part, and ultimately nothing happens that he doesn’t consent to, at least in the abstract.  And God knows the sex has never been better.

Yeah, Dean has to acknowledge that there’s something to be said for Cas’s hands-on strategies.  What he doesn’t have to do is march his way to the firing squad _willingly._ And especially not without banging a few gongs first.

Which means it’s time to go find a gong.

The good thing about being this tiny is that he doesn’t have to go to any particular pains to be quiet, so he doesn’t tiptoe or anything.  He figures his best bet is to use the chair as cover, make his way to the wall, and sneak around the library’s entranceway.  From there he can continue to hug the wall while he heads for the kitchen.  Not only will he be a lot less likely to get stepped on, he’ll be harder to spot.  It’s a solid plan.

It would’ve worked, too, if not for his slight miscalculation.

In two minutes, he will be cursing himself soundly for not remembering _why_ the chair was in that particular spot in the first place.  In two minutes, he will be kicking himself for not using what are ordinarily impressively sharp powers of observation.  In two minutes, he will be regretting a number of his most recent life choices.

Right now, though?  Right now, Dean is feeling great.  He’s got a plan, and it’s gonna work.  

Keeping a close eye on Sammy’s feet, which haven’t moved in the last minute or two as he continues to carry on a one-sided (from Dean’s perspective) conversation with Cas, Dean starts to back quickly toward the wall.  He doesn’t waste the time to turn around and more closely survey the terrain.  After all, he _lives_ here.  He spends hours a day in the library.  He knows this place like the back of his hand.

He registers at the last second, as his foot slides backwards, that something is not quite right—but it’s too late.  Suddenly there is nothing beneath his left foot, and he is so surprised that instead of flinging himself forward and back onto solid ground, he tumbles backward.

If he’d landed just a little differently, he would’ve been able to crawl or tightrope his way back to solid ground, but of course the universe is not that kind to him.  It does him one solid, though, as the sharp yelp that would have given Dean away is lost beneath Sam’s voice.

“Well, that’s all very well,” Dean hears his brother say, “and believe me when I tell you that I fully support whatever comeuppance he gets, but how does that help us _now?”_

_Yep,_ Dean thinks, as he topples through the heating grate embedded in the floor, _I am so screwed._

He manages to catch the edge of a metal grate with the fingertips of one hand.  He hangs there for a second or two, feet dangling over the abyss below.  He has just enough time to be annoyed that it’s summer (if the heat were actually on at the moment, Dean would’ve felt the airflow coming from the vent long before he, uh, stumbled across it) before his fingertips slide off the smooth metal, and he tumbles into darkness.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, gang! I'm back! I took a bit more of a hiatus than anticipated after finishing Snowbound, but here we are again. This was supposed to be a little one-shot, but once I really started to play with the idea, I was having too much fun not to see where it took me. I also kind of wanted to see whether I could outdo my already impressive record on absurdity. You'll have to tell me what you think!
> 
> ~~At the moment, if I were to give you an estimate, I'd say we're looking at maybe five chapters of ridiculousness, but if you read Snowbound, you know not to trust my estimates. At all. Things have a way of getting away from me. I also plan on a much more relaxed posting schedule than I've had in the past. At the moment, all I'm promising is at least one chapter a week. It's possible you'll get more than that, but I'm going to endeavor to make sure you don't get LESS.~~
> 
> [Edit, 2/20/18: Ahahahahaha yeah ignore all of that. We're down the rabbit hole. Way more than five chapters, and uh. One update a week was optimistic to the point of delusional. Suffice it to say that as of February of 2018, I *do not* consider this work abandoned, and neither should you. I know exactly how it ends, and we're gonna get there. One of these years.]
> 
> Also, sorry for the total lack of smut here. It might be a couple chapters before you get any, but it'll be there, and believe me when I tell you it'll be FILTHY. Also kind of creative, what with the whole five-inches-tall thing. Just wait til Cas starts to MacGyver BDSM supplies!
> 
> Strap in, y'all, cause we're headed for a hell of a ride.


	2. Larger than Life

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Dean has to think on his feet (well...foot), and an already weird day gets a hell of a lot weirder.

So, good news and bad news.

The good news is he’s not dead.  And that was definitely in the realm of possibility.  When you’re maybe half a foot tall (and even that’s probably an exaggeration), falling what has to be at least three feet is no fucking joke.  Dean figures two things saved him.  The first is the thick (and he means  _ thick,  _ like half as tall as he is thick) layer of dust blanketing the floor of the ventilation shaft.  The second is the fact that he didn’t land on his head.  Dust or no, he probably would’ve been done for if his fall had played out that way.  He’s lucky as fuck that he managed to grab hold of one of the metal grates for a couple seconds, resulting in him falling feet-first.

Which leads him to the bad news.

The best that can be said of his ankle is that it’s probably not broken.  Maybe a hairline fracture, at minimum a nasty sprain.  Despite the dust somewhat cushioning his fall, he landed at a really weird angle on his right foot.  Honestly, if his reflexes and instincts weren’t as good as they are (and if he didn’t have so fucking much experience at trying to minimize damage to himself after flying unexpectedly through the air) he probably would’ve ended up with a nasty compound fracture.  As it was, he knows how to fall, so he managed to adjust his landing just enough.  He’s avoided the kind of damage that would’ve left him completely immobile and thus likely to die trapped in a heating vent while five inches tall.  Nevertheless, the goddamn thing  _ hurts.   _

He’ll focus on that in a second, as soon as he’s done choking and sneezing.

That’s the other thing.  Useful as the dust was in a cushioning capacity, Dean’s landing basically caused a volcanic eruption of the stuff, and it’s  _ everywhere.   _ The way he’s wallowing around in it, trying to clamber to his feet (well, foot) without doing further harm to his ankle is probably not helping.  After a minute or two it occurs to him to duck the lower half of his face into his flannel and use the fabric as an air filter of sorts while he gets himself upright.

Once he does that, he manages to get his breathing under control pretty quickly.  He goes still, standing on one leg, using the wall as a crutch and waiting, quite literally, for the dust to settle.  It takes a couple minutes, but eventually he feels safe moving again—very, very slowly.  The dust his lower half is buried in precludes getting a good look at his ankle, but now that he’s able to really look around for the first time he starts to get the lay of the land. 

He’s standing at a corner.  In front of him and to his right, dim passageways (well, ventilation shafts, he guesses), each maybe a foot high, stretch off into the distance.  Behind him and to his left are slightly corrugated metal walls.  Dean’s first thought is that he could try to climb one of the walls and escape back out into the library, but almost immediately he can tell it’s no good.  With two working arms and legs, it’d still be an iffy prospect at best.  As it stands, with a violently throbbing ankle (which he can  _ feel  _ swelling up), there’s just no chance.  If he wants out, he’s gonna need to find another way.

Well, he did want an adventure.  Looks like he’s got one.

Determinedly ignoring the tiny (well, tinier) imaginary Cas perching on his shoulder and glaring disapprovingly at him, Dean steels himself and hobbles a couple steps forward, testing his ankle.  Putting weight on it hurts like a bitch, but it doesn’t instantly give out on him, and that’s a good sign.  Makes him think that it’s probably just a bad sprain.  Still, by all rights he shouldn’t be trying to put any weight on it, but needs must.  

Using the wall to hold him up once again, Dean looks back and forth between the two hallways, trying to figure out which direction to head in.  That’s when he realizes that the dust isn’t uniformly thick.  In fact, it’s noticeably thinner in one of the hallways than the other, and Dean suspects he knows what that means.  Squinting narrowly between the two directions, after a moment he nods.  Yeah, the passageway to his right appears to slope upward just slightly, and the one in front of him downward.

He can already see based on the light patterns in the dim shafts that there are other grates spaced relatively evenly along the passages.  If it slopes upward enough, eventually he might get somewhere that he won’t need to climb nearly as far to get back into the bunker proper.  Obviously, his best bet is to go upward.

Unfortunately, this also means he’s gonna have to hobble his way uphill with a bum ankle.  This should be fun.

The thread he’d slung over his shoulder is somehow still there, for all the good it did him, but he lost both thumbtacks in the fall.  Given the very limited tools he has at his disposal, there’s no way he’s leaving them behind.  They’ll make decent weapons, in a pinch, and if he can find any path back up that’s wood instead of metal, he might even be able to use them to climb back into the bunker proper.  Taking a deep breath, he squinches both eyes and mouth shut and dives back into the waist-high dust, going to his knees and groping around until his hand closes on one of the colorful plastic protrusions.  Anchoring one arm firmly around it, he pops up long enough to get a solid breath, then re-immerses himself.  Ten seconds later he’s got the second one.  He’s gotta retreat back into his flannel gas mask for a few minutes while the dust settles again, but once that’s done he’s just about ready to go.

The last order of business is to use his ‘rope,’ such as it is, to make a little sling for one of the thumbtacks.  He’s gonna need one hand to help him along the wall, and he wants to hang onto the other thumbtack just in case he needs to defend himself—against what, he has no idea, but old habits die hard.

Again, his knowledge of knots serves him well, and within a minute or two, he’s painstakingly hobbling his way along the ventilation shaft.  He waits until he gets underneath the next heating vent (and thus in the light) to pause and take a look at his ankle, since—wonder of wonders—he’s no longer up to his waist in dust.

It’s not good, but it’s about what he expected.  It has swollen up to baseball size, hard and angry, big enough that there’s no way he’ll be able to tell by feel whether there’s a break or not.  He doesn’t think there is, and anyway, as soon as he manages to get back to Cas the angel will heal him up, good as new.

Granted, Cas will certainly follow that up with causing a whole different kind of pain.  He’s at least as good at producing pain as he is at healing it, especially in moments like these, when Dean has done things that fall under the “deeply stupid” or “infuriatingly reckless” or “irredeemably obnoxious” umbrellas (Cas’s words, not Dean’s).  Those three catch-alls sum up most circumstances under which Dean finds himself facing Cas’s consequences.  If he checks off any of those boxes, he’s pretty much guaranteed a rough time sitting down.  And Dean’s pretty goddamn sure this latest stunt will qualify as “all of the above” in Cas’s estimation.  

At the moment, Cas is most likely planning out, in great detail, Dean’s comeuppance.  The idea inspires a bizarre mingling of emotions.   He doesn’t enjoy being punished, but he  _ does  _ like the feeling of stability it provides.  He does like knowing that whatever the problem is, Cas will handle it (even if Dean himself is the problem).   He does like having structure, knowing that there are expectations and rules, and that if he strays off the path, Cas will shepherd him right back onto it.

Okay, to be fair, sometimes punishment  _ can  _ be pretty enjoyable, but those are a  _ different  _ kind of punishment and—look, it’s complicated, okay?

It’s…it’s fucking weird, is what it is, Dean knows that, but it also  _ works.   _ And he’s gotta admit, his dangerously self-destructive tendencies have pretty much vanished entirely since they started this.  He doesn’t drink to excess anymore (and that alone is  _ huge), _ he hasn’t gotten into a bar fight in who knows how long, he doesn’t leap straight to the most self-sacrificing solution in any given situation—honestly, he’s a much more stable person.

It’s just that the less of a fucked-up shell of a human being he becomes, the more he finds his…playful side coming out.  The side that likes to tease, to needle, to poke and prod and test boundaries and see how much he can get away with.  The side that kind of likes to flirt with witnesses on a hunt to see what Cas’ll do when they get back to the motel room.  The side that replaced the whipped cream in the fridge with shaving cream just before he knew Sam was going to make hot chocolate.  The side that put itching powder in the neck of Cas’s trenchcoat.  The side that has been known to say “fuck you” or “make me” to the angel in response to perfectly reasonable requests.  The side that likes to call Cas “Captain Bossypants,” despite repeated long-suffering requests not to do so.

The side that Cas refers to as a “brat.”

Dean takes leave to argue with that assessment, or he would if that word didn’t tend to come out right when Cas is about to turn his ass red.  Alright,  _ maybe  _ it’s fitting, but sometimes it’s just so much  _ fun  _ to see what he can get away with, even when he already knows the answer is “not a whole hell of a lot.”

Anyway, that’s neither here nor there.  At the moment, his focus needs to be on getting back to his presumably livid disciplinarian boyfriend, because he’ll take whatever he’s got coming to him over dying of starvation in a heating vent any day and twice on...what’s today?  Wednesday.  Twice on Wednesdays.

For a while, nothing particularly interesting happens.  It’s pretty slow going with Dean’s bum ankle and there’s not a whole lot to see other than the gradually thinning dust.  He’s just starting to think that as adventures go, this one is actually pretty shitty when he hears it.

He doesn’t have any idea what “it” is, but it’s definitely something.  The sound comes from further down the ventilation shaft, in the direction that he’s moving.  Dean has the impression that under normal circumstances, if he were his usual size, it would be damn near inaudible—but as things stand, he hears it quite clearly.  The confined metal space only serves to amplify it, allowing it to echo off the walls and making it incredibly difficult for Dean to identify exactly how far along the tunnel it really is.

And there is definitely something further down the tunnel.  Some _ thing,  _ not some _ one,  _ because the only other human (well—humanoid, anyway) of a size with him is definitely not here.   And whatever it is—it’s getting closer.  The best word Dean can come up with to describe the sound is to call it “scrabbling.”  As if tiny fingers or claws are tapping and scraping along the metal floor.  Under any circumstances, that would be unnerving as hell.  Honestly, it’s the set-up for more than one jump-scare in the horror movies Dean gets a kick out of.  Given that Dean is pretty damn tiny at the moment, he finds it all the more stomach-churning.

Dean freezes with one hand braced against the wall and his thumbtack gripped tightly in the other.  He is listening for all he’s worth, desperately searching for any clues, any at all, that will help him sort out what manner of horror approaches before he comes face-to-whatever-this-thing-has with it.  He’s directly between two vents at the moment, in the darkest part of the tunnel, and he’s of two minds about whether to proceed, retreat, or stay put.  If he gets closer to a light source he will be better able to see what approaches.  Of course, it will also be better able to see  _ him.   _

Fuck.  This was a bad idea.  All of this was just a really, really bad idea.  He’s gonna die, isn’t he?  He’s totally gonna die trapped in a ventilation shaft, decomposing until all that’s left is a tiny skeleton to mystify some distant future HVAC maintenance guy.

Well, fine.  Maybe he is—but he’s Dean Fucking Winchester, and he’s not going down without a fight.

He shifts, adjusting his grip on his thumbtack, planting himself more firmly on his good leg, using his bad foot only for balance.  He takes a deep breath as the sound grows ever louder.  It moves in little fits and starts, a quick scratching followed by momentary pauses, and when it skitters under a vent maybe twenty feet down and briefly bathes itself in relatively bright light, it takes Dean a second to register what he’s just seen and put the pieces together.

First were the antennae—long and graceful, brown, quivering slightly.  Weird, yeah, but he could deal with those.  Then came the—well, shit, Dean guesses it was a face.  There were definitely eyes, big and coal-black.  For a second his mind screams wildly that it’s some new and horrific breed of demon, stalking him through the ventilation system, but he discards this thought almost immediately.  Whatever it is, it’s not that.

It’s through the patch of light so swiftly that all Dean gets of the rest of it is a vague impression.  It’s low to the ground (well—even lower than Dean) and it doesn’t walk so much as it…scuttles.  The movement is eerie, unnerving, and…familiar?

As soon as the thought occurs, Dean realizes that it’s true.  He’s seen movement just like that before, and antennae like that, although not of such a size, and—oh.  _  Oh.  _

Just like that, he knows, and the dual emotions that crash over him are so at odds that he’s reeling for a moment.  Relief and horror comingle in equal parts—relief because Jesus Christ, that’s all it was?—and horror, because Jesus Christ,  _ it’s so fucking big. _

As he processes it all, it has continued to approach, skittering a little closer, pausing, then again.  Now it’s near enough that even in the darker areas, Dean can see its approaching shape, but he doesn’t really get the full picture until it passes under the next vent—which also happens to be the one directly in front of Dean.

The cockroach is probably two inches long, which makes it damn near half as long as Dean is tall, and it clearly sees him.  Dean supposes the fact that it isn’t charging him is probably a good sign.  In fact, it seems reasonably hesitant, approaching more slowly the nearer it gets.  And as creepy as it is to see one of these guys up close (he’s not afraid of roaches, not like Sammy, they don’t even really bother him under ordinary circumstances but these are  _ not  _ ordinary circumstances), there is something oddly nonthreatening about it.  It comes nearer, yes, but tentatively.  It doesn’t move like a creature intent on an attack.  If Dean had to put a name to its demeanor (and this is a whole other level of weird, trying to figure out the attitude and intentions of a fucking cockroach), he would say that the thing is  _ curious.   _ It’s intrigued by him, a little reticent, cautious, but not malicious or bloodthirsty.

At this point it’s no more than seven or eight inches away.  Dean needs to settle on a strategy, and he needs to do it now.

Unnerving as the thing’s appearance is, Dean doesn’t have any desire to pick a fight where there doesn’t need to be one—especially not with something that has built in armor.  Especially not with something that can survive a nuclear holocaust.  He figures his best bet at this point is to follow the thing’s lead and be as nonthreatening as possible.

There’s no fucking way he’s putting down his thumbtack just in case he’s reading this thing all wrong, but he does stop actively brandishing the thing, letting it fall to his side.  His reflexes are quick enough that he can still bring it into play damn fast if he needs to.  At his movement, the thing pauses for another second, its…head, he guesses, tipping slightly to one side.  For a split second the thing reminds him irresistibly of Cas, the way his head tilts quizzically when he’s working on figuring something out.  Making a mental note to never, ever tell Castiel that he just mentally compared the guy to a cockroach, Dean decides to go with his instincts.  As the roach edges forward another inch or so, Dean speaks, quietly.

“Hey,” he says, his voice as soft and nonthreatening as he can make it, “hey there, buddy.”

The roach stops again, head tilting to the other side.  One antenna lifts up, waggles a little.  If Dean didn’t know better, he’d almost think the thing was  _ waving  _ at him—but that’s patently ridiculous.  Even more absurd than this day has already been, and honestly, he’s kind of hit his absurd quota for the decade at this point.

In any case, it doesn’t start charging him, and the way it moves forward still has that cautious-but-interested air that makes Dean think there’s not gonna be any trouble here unless he starts any.  Forcing himself to smile a little, he keeps his tone quiet.  “I know I’m…sort of invading your territory, here.  I’m not gonna hurt you.  I’m just…trying to get back to the surface.”  He feels a little ridiculous, talking to a roach as if the thing can understand him, but he figures maybe at least it can process that his tone is conciliatory.

For half a second, Dean has a bizarre and nearly uncontrollable urge to inquire whether the roach knows a good way for him to get back up into the bunker proper.  His mouth is actually half open with the question when he remembers that he’s talking to a fucking  _ cockroach,  _ and that cockroaches do not speak English, no matter how benign they appear to be.  Talking to the thing he can excuse—after all, people talk to their pets all the time, and dogs and cats don’t speak English.  Asking it questions as if he expects a response?  Not so much.  Taking another breath, he changes course.  “So, uh…nice meeting you, I guess, and now we can…both go about our business.  Don’t…let me stop you.”  He makes a sweeping gesture with the hand holding the thumbtack, intending to gesture the insect past him.   The roach backs up a couple steps, antennae quivering tensely, and Dean realizes what he just did.  “Shit!  I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to—I’m not trying to threaten you, dude.  I’m sorry, that’s my bad.”

…and now he’s apologizing to a cockroach.  Awesome.  This day is not getting any less weird.

It seems to work, at any rate, because the antennae relax again, and the roach edges back forward again, surpassing its previous position to get a little closer.  Dean tenses just a little as it approaches even more closely, just in case, but he’s honestly not worried.  He can’t really say how he knows, because what the hell does he know about cockroach body language, but he can just  _ tell  _ that the thing is…fuck it, yeah, the thing is  _ friendly.   _ If it had a tail, the damn thing would be wagging.

Dean figures he can just stay put while the roach moves past him, then get moving again.  It’ll be kind of an interesting story to tell later (but probably not to Sammy, whose blood pressure rises when someone even  _ says  _ the word “cockroach”), and that’ll be that.

Except the roach doesn’t seem to be on board with that plan.  Instead, it approaches within maybe an inch and a half of Dean—just near enough that the very tips of its antennae can reach him.  They brush against his jean-clad leg, so lightly that he can’t feel it, then lower, nudging lightly at his swollen ankle.  He hisses a little in anticipation of pain that doesn’t come, and the thing very politely backs off, antennae drooping a little in what he’d say was concern if he wasn’t aware of just how much he’s personifying an insect.  Nevertheless, he finds himself speaking.  “It’s okay, I just hurt it a little when I…fell.  That’s why I’m trying to find a way to get topside that doesn’t include too much climbing.”

The antennae perk up immediately, fast enough that Dean could almost swear the fucking thing just had an  _ idea.   _ Before Dean can silently mock himself even more for his folly, the roach swivels around (which, seriously, is a weird-ass process to see in such detail).  It starts back in the direction it came, and at first Dean is a little annoyed.  They were just gonna go on past each other and get on with their business, right?  Now he’s gotta figure out whether to walk behind the thing and risk it feeling threatened, or—wait.  Wait a second.

The roach has paused, after skittering a few inches forward, and so help him, it is  _ looking back at Dean over its _ …okay, it doesn’t have a shoulder.  But it’s definitely looking back at him, and…is it?  No  _ way.   _

It  _ is.   _ The cockroach is waving an antenna in a “come along” gesture.  Dean is absolutely certain of it.

Still, he stares blankly for a few long moments, because come the fuck on.  There’s just no way, right?  As he dithers, the roach turns back toward Dean, scuttles back up to him, and then…oh, fuck it.  If ever there was a day to just go with the flow, this is it.  It raises an antenna, points directly at him, and then does the “come along” motion again.  Then it turns around, scuttles a few inches, and looks back at him.

Okay, then.

A cockroach wants him to follow it.  A friendly fucking cockroach is communicating with him, and somehow the thing has understood him, and Dean will be damned if the thing doesn’t want to help him.  It strains the limits of even his incredulity, but fuck it, he doesn’t exactly have any better ideas.

“O…kay,” Dean tells it, “Lead the way, I guess.”

~*~

Forty-five minutes later, Dean has to admit that he’s impressed.  The roach has led him through a zig-zagging maze of ventilation tunnels which continue to move very gradually but steadily upward.  He can see perfectly well that although he fell three feet, the grates through which light is shining are now no more than 18 inches above him.  And here’s the thing—it could just be coincidence.  He could just be trailing in the wake of a roach that’s going about its own business and that doesn’t mind him for whatever reason—except that he’s seen how fast roaches can move.  The little fuckers are  _ quick _ when they want to be, so it bears mentioning that this one is moving no faster than Dean can hobble along in its wake.  Dean has needed to pause to lean against the wall and take all the weight off his injured ankle a couple times, and each time the roach waited with apparent patience, gazing at him with what sure as fuck looks like bright interest and expectation.  

Honestly, the eager insect has probably done a lot to improve Dean’s stamina—having a cheerleader, even a skittery one with a carapace, never hurts when you’re trying to play through the pain.  Even so, though, Dean is flagging.  The longer he hobbles on it, the more his ankle is hurting.  The swelling is impressive and at this point he’s grinding his teeth to keep silent every time he has to put weight on it, however briefly.  He’s really starting to worry that, wherever the little dude is taking him, he’s not gonna make it.

Still, he perseveres, pushing himself to go onward.  He makes it another ten minutes before he finally has to stop, setting his back against the wall and sliding down it to sit on the floor, breathing hard.  “I’m sorry, I just—I need some time,” he tells the roach, gritting his teeth as he stretches his leg out in front of him.  His insect guide turns to face him, antennae drooping again in concern as it edges toward him.  “No, I’m okay,” he tells it, then grits his teeth again.  The roach comes still closer and…holy shit. Damned if the thing doesn’t  _ pat Dean’s fucking hand  _ with one antenna in a consoling sort of way.  “Thanks, buddy,” Dean tells it, marveling silently that he is finding a cockroach endearing.  “You know,” he adds thoughtfully, trying to distract himself from the throb in his ankle, “I really ought to have something better than ‘buddy’ to call you.”

The roach’s antennae perk with interest.  It does something that can only be described as bouncing in what has to be excitement.  Dean is once again powerfully reminded of a dog, if a really oddly shaped one.  He supposes if he’s going to name the little guy, he could call it Spot or Rover or something, really play off the whole dog-like thing, but…it doesn’t feel quite right. 

That’s when it comes to him.

It’s horribly wrong on about four levels, and that’s probably why Dean finds it so utterly irresistible.  Now that the thought has occurred, he’s incapable of resisting.

“Gregor,” he tells the little dude, “I’m gonna call you Gregor.”  Gregor pauses for a second, then waggles his antennae happily.  Apparently, he’s on board.

Hmph.  Anyone who says Dean’s not literary can just take that and shove it.

Dean gives himself ten minutes to rest, then painfully clambers to his feet.  He only makes it another foot or two (which, to be fair, is a lot further when you’re five inches tall) before he has to give it up as a bad job.  He slumps back down the wall, mustering a crooked smile for Gregor.  “Sorry, Lassie,” he tells the concerned-looking roach, “looks like Timmy’s fallen down the fuckin well.  I don’t suppose you’ve got any bigger friends who could give me a ride?”  He laughs a little at his own joke, imagining one of the massive roaches he’s seen on television—the kind that definitely don’t exist in the continental United States—giving him a ride back topside.  Gregor cocks his head in that same Cas-like inquisitive gesture, and before Dean can tell the little guy that he was just joking, the little dude has turned around and scuttled rapidly down the ventilation shaft in the direction they were already going.

“Gregor!” Dean calls after him, but there’s no response other than the sound of skittering feet fading into the distance.  Dean feels oddly bereft at the thought of losing his new friend.  He was just starting to really enjoy the little guy, and now it seems he’s gotten impatient with Dean’s slow pace and gone back about his business.

It also means that Dean’s predicament has worsened.  Without his guide, he has no fucking clue what direction to go in the next time he hits an intersection, and that’s if he can get much further on this damn ankle.  He doesn’t even know which part of the bunker he’s in now, so edging his way to one of the grates and trying to shout until somebody hears him is pointless.  It’s not like his voice travels far at the moment anyway.

Basically, Dean concludes after a few minutes, he’s screwed.

He’s also fucking exhausted—even without a bum ankle, he’s travelled a pretty impressive distance over the past hour or so.  Maybe if he naps for a bit his ankle will be ready to try again when he wakes up?

He adjusts himself, getting as comfortable as possible on the unyielding, slightly dusty metal floor before he tips his head back against the wall.  He’s just starting to drift a little when something jerks him back to full alertness, the shock jolting him away from the wall, stiffening his back.

Far away, from the same direction Gregor vanished in, Dean hears scrabbling movement.  He registers two things almost instantly; first, whatever’s making that noise is  _ big.   _ A hell of a lot bigger than Gregor, for sure. Second, whatever it is, it’s coming  _ fast.   _

He barely has enough time to wrestle his second thumbtack out of its little sling, and he definitely doesn’t have near enough time to painstakingly struggle to his feet before it’s too late.

Whatever the hell it is, it isn’t slowing down as it approaches, and it’s heavy enough that its movements reverberate through the tunnel, making the metal beneath Dean vibrate.

He got lucky once, with Gregor.  He’s pretty fucking sure he’s not likely to get that lucky again.  Brandishing both thumbtacks in a pitiful attempt at protection, heart thundering impossibly fast in his ears (he’s pretty sure he remembers something about smaller animals having faster heartbeats, so he’s probably not having a heart attack), Dean shrinks back against the wall.

The shadows further down the shaft come to life.  Dean’s last thought before the dark shape bears down upon him is a fairly familiar one, at least.  

_ Fuck, I should have listened to Cas. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Y'all have no idea how much fun I am having. None.
> 
> Ten points to the first person who correctly gets (without googling!) why Dean named our new friend "Gregor."
> 
> If you've read Snowbound, you will note that Sam has basically the same relationship to cockroaches in this fic as he does in that one. I want to make it clear that Down to Size does NOT take place in the Let It Snow 'verse. You can probably put money on the probability that every Sam I ever write will have that same cockroach phobia. Because...honestly, there's no good reason. It just amuses me.
> 
> Quick note: The dynamic with Dean and Cas will be explored in greater detail moving forward, but what I do want to emphasize (as we get bits of it via Dean's thoughts) is that their relationship is fully consensual and mutually beneficial.


	3. Not to Scale

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which maybe this is all just a really vivid acid trip, because it cannot possibly be real life, can it?
> 
> Chapter-specific tags and warnings can be found at the end of the chapter.

If the sound of Gregor’s approach was a skittering or scrabbling, the new arrival’s movement can only be called  _ thundering.   _ The echoing metal walls of the tunnel certainly don’t help with the noise level, and Dean almost wants to drop his thumbtacks and slap his hands over his ears.  He doesn’t, obviously, because he’d rather have ringing ears than be defenseless against the distressingly large shape that looms scant feet away.

He’s brandishing both thumbtacks, ready to stab as hard as he can at whatever it is as soon as it gets within range.  This would be a lot simpler if he were mobile, but he knows better than to think that getting up will do anything but destabilize him.  He’d probably end up faceplanting in front of it when his ankle gives out entirely.  Better to stay seated and stable than try to fight while wobbling on one working leg.  Strategy or no, though, he knows it’s no good. The closer it gets, the more he can see the shape and really get a sense of its size.  It’s just too big.  Unless he manages the perfect hit, maybe impales its eye or something, there’s no way he’s coming out of this on top.

By now, the thing can’t be more than two feet away and Dean’s pretty sure he can—yeah, no, he can definitely hear it  _ breathing  _ in quick little pants.  Is it that excited about eating him for lunch?  Fuck.  He hopes the fucking thing chokes on him.  At least if he’s going down, he can take it with him.  Just as he starts to mentally curse Gregor for abandoning him to die alone (at least the little guy was pretty good company), Dean sees something that makes him hesitate, his thumbtacks drooping a little.

In the same moment that he goes still, the thing (which up until now, has been hugging the wall and flitting under the vents so fast that Dean hasn’t managed to get a real sense of it) slows down enough that Dean finally gets a good look at it.

It travels on all fours, scurrying on paws tipped with little claws that click lightly on the metal floor.  Sleek brown fur covers it from head to toe and a long, naked tail that is oddly snake-like trails after the thing, whipping from side to side.  The face is pointed, its long snout tipped with a pink nose, and a spray of whiskers splay out from either side.  A little split in the bottom of its nose continues down to its mouth in what would be called a cleft lip in a human, but Dean dimly recalls has another name in the sort of creature approaching.  The eyes are pure black and beady, sharply alert.

Even knowing the lay of the land, even with the thing approaching much more slowly, what Dean still fixates on most is the sheer  _ size  _ of it.  If he had to estimate he’d say the rat must be at least seven inches, and that’s not including the tail which is at least that long again.  From nose to the tip of the tail, it’s well over a foot long.

Dean’s mind, ever unhelpful, takes this moment to fixate on something completely fucking irrelevant, considering the circumstances.  

_ The bunker has rats?  How the hell did we not know this? _

Former obliviousness notwithstanding, it’s fairly obvious that the bunker does indeed have rats—or at least  _ a  _ rat.  A rat which is more than big enough to eat Dean, if it’s hungry.  Is it hungry?  It looks sort of hungry to him, not that he’d know what to look for.

He’s just tightened his hands around his thumbtacks and started to chart out how he’s going to gouge out its eyes as soon as it lunges for him (surely it’s just sizing him up in advance of moving in for the kill, right?  It came much too quickly and purposefully for this meeting to be a coincidence) when something catches his eye.

The rat, which is now advancing at a cautious creep, has a very specific way of moving, sinuous and quick and oddly graceful.  The motion that catches Dean’s eye is different.  And familiar, particularly in recent memory.  It’s also quick, but jerkier, more alien.  It’s…insectile.  Dean’s eyes dart just to the rat’s right and sure enough, a pair of antennae come poking around from behind the enormous thing.

There’s no reason on the planet that Dean should be able to recognize a cockroach.  If you’d asked him two hours ago, he’d have told you that they were all basically identical, except for varying slightly in size from one to the next.

And yet.

He definitely recognizes  _ this _ cockroach, and he can’t quite contain his cry of happy surprise.  “Gregor!” He exclaims, as though he’s just rediscovered the best friend from whom he’s been separated for years.  Gregor comes fully around the back of the rat, which has stopped moving and crouched tentatively, its beady little eyes still fixed intently on Dean.  The roach’s antennae both wave happily as it scuttles back over to Dean, then pauses just out of reach.  Dean frowns a little, then glances down and realizes he’s still wielding his thumbtacks threateningly.  As reassuring as Gregor’s appearance is, though, he doesn’t drop them quite yet.  Instead, he speaks in a low voice, as though if he’s quiet enough he can ensure that only Gregor hears him.  He assumes that if cockroaches can understand English (and all evidence suggests that this one can, at least), it’s reasonable to assume that maybe the rat can as well.  “Gregor,” he says again, softly, “did you bring this…guy with you on purpose?”

Gregor’s antennae quiver excitedly.  He swivels toward the rat, pointing enthusiastically at it, then turns back to Dean and points at him.

Dean stares dumbly at the roach.  He’s pretty sure that qualifies as an affirmative, and even more certain that Gregor is trying to tell him something.  

He’s not getting it.

Still, the rat continues to wait patiently an inch or two out of reach, enough that Dean feels it’s probably safe to let the thumbtacks fall a little, no longer quite so poised to do violence.  Gregor seems to feel this is sufficient as he goes ahead and advances the rest of the way to Dean, doing what he would call nuzzling at him with those antennae if he didn’t know that roaches definitely can’t nuzzle.

“Yeah, I’m happy to see you too, buddy,” Dean murmurs to him, and without making any conscious decision to do so, Dean finds that he is petting a cockroach.  And he actually set down one of his thumbtacks to do it. Unsurprisingly, the roach in question is all about it.  “I know you’re trying to tell me something,” Dean continues, still lightly stroking Gregor’s carapace, “but I’m just not getting—wait.  Wait a minute.”  He cuts himself off as his mind, lately short-circuited by the terror of the rat’s approach (the rat, by the way, who continues to wait with apparent patience as it watches the happy reunion of cockroach and Tom Fucking Thumb) starts to come back online.

His own words of no more than twenty minutes ago, which probably should have popped into his head before now, start to trickle back to him.  In his own defense, he really had been just joking.  A throwaway quip, like any number of others he makes at least 100 times a day.

_ I don’t suppose you’ve got any bigger friends who could give me a ride? _

It was a  _ joke.   _ A fucking joke!

So apparently, cockroaches understand English but struggle to grasp sarcasm.

Something else they have in common with Cas.

Dean has to stifle a snicker at the thought, then shakes himself back to the here and now, because he’s got an insect and a rodent both intently waiting to see what he does next, and far be it from him to disappoint his public.

“Gregor,” Dean starts again, trying to keep the edge of hysteria he feels (because come  _ on,  _ this is nothing if not hysterical) out of his voice, “are you…do you…did you bring your buddy here so I can  _ ride him to safety?” _

Gregor’s antennae wiggle happily as he backs off far enough to repeat his previous gesture.  He pivots back toward the rat, points his antennae directly at it (the rat’s whiskers vibrate in response), then turns back to Dean and points at him.

Sure as hell looks to Dean like a ‘yes.’

“Um,” Dean says, before words fail him altogether.  In the meantime, Gregor waits, standing directly between Dean and the rat, bouncing a little.  Dean is reminded irresistibly of the way Sam used to look at Dean and Cas back when they were still mostly trading smoldering looks thick with poorly-repressed sexual tension, a look that Dean has since privately christened the “Now Kiss” look (What? He kind of gets a kick out of memes, so sue him).  He’s pretty sure Gregor doesn’t actually want Dean to kiss the rat, but he’s definitely  _ extremely  _ stoked to introduce his friends to each other.  Dean’s stomach sinks as he is struck with the sudden (and completely fucking ridiculous) knowledge that if he rejects the offer of help, the poor cockroach is going to be  _ crushed.  _

Er…figuratively.  Figuratively crushed.  He supposes it bears mentioning, considering what often literally happens to cockroaches (and honestly, he can’t even  _ think  _ about that right now.  The idea of Gregor getting squished under a heavy boot is so horrifying he actually feels nauseous for a few seconds until he shoves the notion away).  Anyway, the point is, he can’t do that to the little guy.  Not when he’s been such a source of comfort and companionship.  Not when he clearly went out of his way to hunt down his rat-buddy and convince him to let some weird miniature human fucking  _ ride him like a horse.   _

Actually, now that Dean thinks about it, Gregor must be one persuasive son of a bitch.  If Dean were a rat living in the bowels of the bunker, he cannot imagine a circumstance in which he’d be down for this, but somehow here the rat is.  Dean wonders idly what kind of favors Gregor had to promise to get the rat to show, especially considering that the roach really wasn’t gone all that long.  He hopes it wasn’t anything too bad.

Anyway, the point is, Gregor’s clearly gone to a lot of trouble to get Stuart-Fucking-Little here, and it would be an incredibly poor repayment of his efforts if Dean were to be rude to his friend.  

Which means he needs to get his shit together and stop spluttering, stat.

“Um,” he starts again, then clears his throat and shakes himself a little bit, “that’s…that’s so awesome, Gregor.  One of the nicest things anybody’s ever done for me.  And—you,” he turns to the rat, who blinks alertly at him, “thank you so much for coming.  I’m—I’m Dean.  It’s…really nice to meet you?”  In the end that last bit sort of comes out sounding like a question, but neither Gregor nor the rat seems offended by Dean’s relative uncertainty.

Gregor, whose antennae waggled happily throughout Dean’s little speech, glances between Dean and the rat once more before he edges closer to Dean and delicately nudges at the hand still holding a thumbtack.  Dean blinks down at it stupidly, then starts, realizing that it probably doesn’t look great that he’s still essentially brandishing a weapon at the new arrival, albeit less enthusiastically than he was at first.

He lets the thumbtack drop by his side (although he doesn’t set it down entirely—his training just won’t permit it, no matter how sure he is that the rat has no intentions of attacking him) and Gregor pats his hand in affectionate approval before turning back to the rodent.  And then the cockroach fucking beckons the rat closer with an antenna, and just exactly what in the hell has Dean’s life become?

Dean actually takes half a second to wonder whether maybe this entire afternoon has actually been an incredibly vivid acid trip.  He discards the idea fairly quickly, mostly because he’s pretty sure that even under the influence of powerful hallucinogens, his imagination could never come up with anything this out there.  In the meantime, the rat in question has edged closer, moving very slowly and telegraphing each of its movements in advance.  Dean recognizes what it’s doing almost immediately, because he’s approached more than one freaked-out witness to or victim of the supernatural in exactly the same way.  The fucking rat is taking pains to demonstrate that it’s not a threat.  Clearly it’s perfectly well aware of how petrified Dean was upon its approach (goddamn sharp animal senses) and is now working to ensure that Dean recognizes it as friend and not foe.

He’s being coddled by a rat.

The very idea makes Dean want to go punch a brick wall, pee his name into a snowbank, and yell epithets at a sports team just to reestablish his masculinity.  Since he can’t actually do any of the above, he settles for looking as unafraid as possible as the rat nears him.

For what it’s worth, he’s never actually thought of rodents as having facial expressions before.  It wouldn’t ever have occurred to him that a rat could look  _ unconvinced,  _ yet here they are, a skeptical-looking rat eyeing Dean as it continues its overcautious approach.  Dean’s honestly a little offended, but he feels like starting an argument with his new acquaintance is probably not the best foot to get off on.  Plus, it would make Gregor sad, and Dean really can’t have that.

Instead he settles for injecting some humorous bravado into the situation—or tries to, anyway.  “I gotta tell you,” Dean informs rat and cockroach, “when 4-year-old me imagined brandishing a sword and riding a noble steed into battle, this wasn’t exactly what I had in mind.”  Both rat and cockroach stare blankly at him.  Gregor does that little bewildered head-tilt thing again.  Dean makes a mental note that animals and insects lack a sense of irony and sighs.  “But I’m sure I can adapt.  Never mind, I was just—never mind.  I—oh, okay.  Uh, hi there.”  Apparently the rat got fed up with his failed attempts at humor, because after exchanging a sidelong glance with Gregor (and come to think of it, it looks  _ just  _ like the long-suffering looks Cas and Sam have been known to exchange when their mutual patience with Dean is completely worn through) it went ahead and lightly trod the final few inches separating it from Dean.  A warm gust of air ruffles his flannel a little as the rat’s nose very lightly nudges Dean’s shoulder in a friendly sort of way.

Dean hesitates for a second or two, then makes sure to telegraph his movements at least as carefully as the rat did, but his new friend seems completely unthreatened.  On some level that’s kind of unnerving, because he’s pretty sure only part of it has to do with the fact that he’s actively trying not to be threatening.  He’s pretty damn sure the rat has sized him up and decided it can take him.

It’s probably right.

Anyway, the likely outcome of Rat vs. Mini-Man Mortal Kombat is irrelevant for the moment (and will hopefully remain that way).  What matters is that the rat makes no move to back away or lash out as Dean carefully extends his arm.  His hand makes contact just above the creature’s nose, sliding back along its head in a long, slow stroke.  The fur is sleek and even softer than it looks, and the warmth radiating from it is oddly soothing.  Gregor is great and makes damn good company, but there’s something so  _ alien  _ about the little guy.  It’s kind of nice to have mammalian companionship.

The rat presses its head very lightly into Dean’s hand, clear acceptance of the friendly overture.  Its wide, clever eyes slide shut in apparent bliss as Dean scratches lightly behind one of its velvety ears.  “Yeah,” Dean murmurs, actually having to restrain himself from pressing his forehead against the soft fur to see how it feels on his face, “that feels good, huh?  Nothing like a head rub.  They’re my favorite, too.”

Dean goes ahead and gives the big guy a few more pets and another couple good ear scratches before taking his hand back.  The rat blinks a few times, shakes its head slightly as if regathering its wits about it (fuck it, Dean decides, he’s going to assume the rat is a dude.  It feels rude to keep thinking of him as “it.”), then drops his head a little to nudge impossibly gently at his bad ankle.  “Yeah,” Dean agrees, “that’s the problem, and why I can’t just climb out myself.  Look,” he adds, “are you sure you’re cool with me, like...riding you?  Your people aren’t gonna kick you out as a human-lover or something, are they?”

The rat blinks blandly at him once, exchanges another glance with Gregor, and then settles down on his belly, putting itself as low to the ground as possible.  He settles his dark eyes on Dean and jerks his head a little in a gesture that sure as fuck looks like “hop on.”  Dean guesses that’s as much of an answer as he’s going to get.

“Thanks,” Dean tells him sincerely, “really.  Both of you.”  He turns to look at Gregor, too, and the little guy bounces happily once more.  “Once I’m back to normal size, neither of you is ever gonna go hungry ever again.”  Gregor pats his hand comfortingly with an antenna, as if to argue that he didn’t do it for a reward, and for the first time in Dean’s life, he finds himself a little saddened by the knowledge that it’s really not anatomically possible for him to exchange hugs with a cockroach.  “Okay, Gregor and—” he pauses here as he realizes that he doesn’t know what to call his new rodent friend, and that simply won’t do.

His first instinct is both kind of douchey and factually inaccurate, considering the relative sizes of things at the moment.  Dean can live with being a douche, but he draws the line at being wrong, so he makes a slight adjustment.  

“Alright, listen up,” he tells the rat, “if we’re gonna do this, I gotta have something to call you.  I’ve got an idea, but if you hate it I can come up with something else, okay?”  The rat blinks at him once, and Dean would swear it’s in acknowledgement.  “Okay, good.  I think I’m gonna call you Stuart Big.  Probably just Stuart for short.”  He manages to refrain from snickering at his own somewhat questionable cleverness.  The rat hesitates, tilting his head to one side and then the other as if in solemn contemplation, then settles and blinks again, just once, very deliberately.  Dean decides to count that as approval.  

“Okay, I’m gonna work on getting up now so I can, uh…climb on board?  I’m gonna bring my thumbtacks just in case, but I promise I have no plans to stab you or anything.”  It seems wise to make that perfectly clear, since he’s still pretty sure Stuart’s long, sharp teeth could bite off one of Dean’s legs without breaking a sweat.  Stuart blinks again and does not recoil as Dean starts to painfully clamber to his feet.  It doesn’t take long for the rat to prove his usefulness.  Dean’s halfway upright when his bad ankle buckles, and he would’ve hit the floor if not for the warm body suddenly propping his bad side upright, preventing him from toppling.  He lets Stuart take on some of his weight, finding an almost embarrassing level of comfort in the warm, soft body against his.  Maybe this is why Sam loves dogs so much?  Dean guesses he can kind of see the appeal.

Once he feels more stable, Dean returns one of his thumbtacks to its little rope sling, then hobbles to his feet.  Stuart obligingly shuffles around until Dean can climb astride with no more effort than swinging one leg overtop of him.  “Patience” is yet another characteristic it would never have occurred to him to ascribe to a rat, but Stuart earns the descriptor thoroughly by the time Dean manages to get settled on his back.

“I…think I’m set?” Dean says uncertainly, adjusting himself a little to test his balance.  “We might wanna move slow at least to start, though.”  There’s a brief, expectant pause, and after a moment Dean glances down to see Gregor prodding his foot with an antenna.  “What is it, buddy?” Dean asks, and Gregor swivels from one side to the other, pointing his antennae in apparently random directions.  It takes Dean a minute to realize that the roach is asking him a question, but once he figures it out he feels a little silly for not realizing the problem earlier.  “Oh, shit!  Okay, uh, you wanna know where we’re going.  I need to get to the library.  It’s the big room on the top floor with a long table and lots of bookshelves.  The place where the other humans,” he takes a moment to mentally apologize to Cas, but there’s no way in hell he’s going into a detailed discussion of the difference between angels-in-human-vessels and actual humans while perched on the back of a rat, “and I hang out most of the time.  Do you know whe—oh, shit!”

Yeah, apparently Stuart knows where he means, because the rat didn’t bother to wait for Dean to finish his question before taking off.  While Dean guesses Stuart’s probably moving a good deal slower than he was on approach, it still feels pretty goddamn fast, especially as he tries to get used to the rhythm of the movement and figure out how best to balance.  He gets the hang of it pretty quickly, crouching low over Stuart’s neck and gently seizing handfuls of his fur for purchase.  They’re sure as hell travelling a hell of a lot faster than Dean was on his own, and when he glances over his shoulder he sees Gregor scuttling happily in their wake, easily keeping up.  Honestly, even if his ankle were in perfect working order, he’s pretty sure both Gregor and Stuart could easily outpace him.  He dimly remembers that way back in the day, when humans were still hunter-gatherers, it wasn’t speed that set them apart as apex predators, it was stamina.  Dean seems to have failed at both of those today, but apparently that’s what interspecies friendships are for.  Go fucking figure.

It’s almost insulting how quickly Stuart gets him out of the ventilation system.  Seriously, it can’t be more than ten minutes before the rat has paused just beneath a brand new vent.  Dean knows he hasn’t seen this one before—hell, he knows it must be in an obscure part of the bunker—because it’s easy to see why Stuart chose this as their exit point.

The grating that covers this vent has rusted through, likely due to a persistent leak over the many decades in which the bunker lay untouched.  There’s a gaping hole more than large enough to allow Stuart entry, which is a relief (Dean had only just started wondering how the hell the rat was gonna get him through grates that were barely large enough to admit Dean himself).  So that’s one problem solved, but another one looms at least as large.

The exit in question is still  _ above  _ them.  Stuart will have to climb, and somehow Dean will have to stay on his back.  Stuart hesitates, apparently thinking the same thing, and Dean frowns to himself.  “I might have an idea, but you’d really have to trust me,” he tells the rat.  Stuart cranes his neck to peer over his shoulder at Dean, who grabs the coil of thread and waggles it at the rat.  Stuart pauses for a moment, then crouches again to let Dean slide off his back.  Looks like he’s on board.

After a lot of work, three ridiculously unsuccessful attempts, a few knots Dean hasn’t used in ages, not to mention the inadvertent (but kind of charming) discovery that rats can in fact be ticklish, Dean has a weird little harness rigged for himself.  At the least, it should serve to help him hang on long enough for Stuart to climb the two feet or so up to the main level.

It does.

There were a couple stomach-churning moments there (Dean’s pretty sure he got at least twenty new grey hairs in the several seconds in which it looked like one of his knots wasn’t going to hold), but by God, they made it.  Scarcely fifteen minutes after first climbing aboard Stuart, Dean finds himself in the wholly unprecedented position of riding his rat-steed through the cavernous halls of the bunker, headed for the library.  The wind whips past his cheeks and through his hair, and Dean absolutely cannot resist taking the opportunity to pull out one of his thumbtacks and brandish it above his head like a sword.  He’s not completely tone-deaf, so he warns Stuart and Gregor first (he doesn’t want them thinking he’s gone around the bend and is about to try to stab Stuart).

When the duo comes around the corner opposite Dean and his posse, the first thing that occurs to him is as nonsensical as the rest of his day.   _ His ride is bigger,  _ Dean thinks, eyes locking onto the miniscule angel sprouting out of Sam’s luxurious locks like the strangest weed ever,  _ but mine is definitely cooler. _

From this distance, Dean really can’t see more than the general shape of Cas, but he knows with perfect certainty that those intent blue eyes are already burning holes in him from afar.  Cas must have spoken to Sam, because his brother’s booming voice suddenly rumbles through the hall and over Dean.  “Oh, thank God, he’s alive,” the relief in Sam’s tone makes squirming guilt suddenly roar to life in Dean’s gut.  Fuck, they were really worried about him.  Dean doesn’t have too much time to start kicking his own ass (and anyway, Cas’ll do a more than thorough job of that presently) before Sam’s voice rises in startled disbelief.  “Wait, what’s—is he riding a—Dean, are you riding  _ a rat?” _

Boy, does Dean have a story for them.  But first— “Oh, shit,” he mutters, suddenly way more worried about what might happen if Sam spots the roach than what definitely will happen once Cas gets his tiny angel paws on Dean, “Gregor—hide, buddy.  I’ll send Stuart to find you later.  Trust me.”

Dean glances over his shoulder and discovers that the roach has already decamped, thankfully.  The little dude really does trust Dean.  Dean’s not sure what he did to deserve either the trust or the friendship of the astonishingly engaging cockroach, but he sure as hell plans on doing everything he can to protect the little guy.  

Introducing Gregor to Sam is going to be a…delicate proposition.  It’s gonna require some strategizing.  Honestly, Cas will probably have some good ideas about how to manage it, but that’s gonna have to wait.  Dean’s pretty fucking sure Cas already has their next ‘conversation’ mapped out in significant detail, and that Dean’s role in it will probably be restricted to the words “yes,” “sorry,” “please,” and of course that perennial favorite, “Sir.”

Honestly, he sort of thinks about telling Stuart to pull a U-turn and get him the fuck out of here, but running from the consequences of his actions has yet to end well for him.  As one of Dean’s teachers used to say, if you’re gonna write the symphony, you’d better be ready to face the music.

Even from this far down the hall, Dean’s pretty sure he recognizes the familiar motions of Cas, starting to roll his sleeves up.

Looks like it’s concert time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter-specific tags/warnings: Dean has interactions with both a cockroach and a rat in this chapter (and will in subsequent chapters as well). It was brought to my attention that some people are super squicked by one or the other, so I thought warning for them was probably best. What I can tell those of you who asked is that I have no immediate plans to add a spider character to the story, so you're safe on that count.
> 
> AUTHOR'S NOTE:
> 
> The number of you who accurately (or almost accurately) guessed what was coming at the end of last chapter is making me think I need to up my game. In other news, if anybody out there feels driven to draw a normal-sized Sam with a tiny Cas riding atop his head, I will love you for-fucking-ever.
> 
> I know these chapters are coming much more slowly than in past works. This is partly because I'm working on another project at the same time. [Dangerousnotbroken](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Dangerousnotbroken/pseuds/Dangerousnotbroken) and I are co-writing this year's DCBB. We're about a third of the way through and having a great time, but it's also keeping us busy. For those of you who aren't familiar with her work, I strongly recommend going to check out her current WIP, [Unsolicited](http://archiveofourown.org/works/6719128/). It's glorious, and nobody is more qualified to assess that than yours truly, who is beta-reading it. Once you're done with that, go read everything else she's ever written (actually, I've been informed to tell you to skip the early stuff) because it's all spectacular.
> 
> For those of you who've been patiently waiting, yes, we're going to get much more in depth on Cas and Dean's relationship dynamic next chapter, and yes, it's likely to involve some fodder for Team Dean's Red Ass. I expect that I may lose some of you at that point, and that's okay. The dynamic they're rocking in this story is definitely not for everyone, but it is where this version of the boys insisted upon taking me. I blame [Deadmockingbirds](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Deadmockingbirds/pseuds/Deadmockingbirds). I think I read too much of Mock's stuff just before I started writing this one (and incidentally, if domestic discipline is something that speaks to you, go read Mock's work posthaste).
> 
> And finally, it should come as no surprise at all to those of you who are familiar with my writing process when I tell you that I may have grossly underestimated the shape of this work. I take back my estimate of five chapters and replace it with I-don't-have-a-clue-but-longer-than-that. The aforementioned Dangerousnotbroken, who gave me the original prompt (which was very simple: "I told you not to touch that! Why don't you ever listen to me?" All of the absurdity that's followed is all me, and should not be blamed on her) and who assigned me the task of writing it in under 8000 words (HA) has estimated that it's more likely to hit 80K. I can't say whether she's right, but we're definitely looking at more than five chapters.
> 
> I hope y'all are having as much fun with this as I am, because as it turns out, I love anthropomorphizing animals commonly considered vermin even more than I love torturing Sam with Dean and Cas's sex life. In other news, someone asked me the other day "what do you do for fun?"
> 
> I lied.
> 
> See y'all next Friday (or earlier, if you're very lucky) with another update!


	4. A Short Leash

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which it's time to pay the piper, and the price is steep.
> 
> Also, Cas is a master of improvisation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I rather imagine I will lose some of you after (or during) this chapter, and that’s okay. A DD dynamic is very much not for everyone. If this is where you take your leave, thanks for coming part of the way with me, and I hope you enjoyed what you did choose to read. 
> 
> I promise there will be more from me in the future that’s not DD, so check in here and there if the urge strikes. I’m currently working on two other projects (one I’ve mentioned before; my DCBB with Dangerousnotbroken. The other is a sequel to [Half the Naked Distance](https://archiveofourown.org/works/6151447)) that are very different than this piece.

He isn’t actually _trying_ to be funny.   Honestly.  Later, he will conclude privately that he’s probably seen too many westerns over the years, but at the time it seems only natural to pat the rat’s side and say “Whoa, Stuart.”

The _really_ amusing part (if you ask Dean, which nobody does) is that the rat actually understands, slowing down to a leisurely walk as Sam and Cas rapidly close the distance between them.  Sam, who both hears Dean and sees the result, loses it, laughing so hard that Cas nearly topples off his head, staying put only by tangling his tiny fists tighter in Sam’s shaggy mop of hair.  Sam winces a little but doesn’t stop laughing, crouching down before Dean and Stuart and reaching up to pluck the angel out of his hair.

Cas relinquishes his death-grip, legs dangling ridiculously in the moments before Sam carefully sets him on the ground next to Stuart and Dean.

“Uh,” Dean says eloquently, “hey, guys?”

Sam rubs a hand over his mouth, clearly trying to sober himself so he can address Dean’s disappearance and subsequent return with the gravity the subject deserves.  Cas sees nothing whatsoever humorous in the situation.

Sure enough, one of his sleeves is rolled up and the other halfway there (apparently Sam’s unexpected hysterics necessitated that Cas pause in order to prevent being tumbled onto the floor), and when Dean finally steels himself to look at Cas, he’s again struck by the angel’s ability to make him feel about three inches ta—okay, bad analogy at the moment.

Stuart senses the danger (not a hard thing, considering the waves of barely suppressed fury radiating off of Cas, not to mention the threat inherent in the way he stands) and starts to back away, intent on protecting himself and his rider from this new threat.  Later, Dean will reflect that it’s kind of funny that the nearly six-and-a-half feet of Sam intimidate the rat not at all, but five inches worth of angry Cas is enough to spark his fight-or-flight instincts.

Dean feels the same way.

Cas recognizes what’s going on instantly and shifts his attention from Dean to Stuart.  He crouches down and extends a hand, his demeanor undergoing a complete transformation, shifting from boy-are-you-in-for-it to nonthreatening softness.  “And hello to you, friend,” Cas says quietly, smiling at the rat.  Stuart pauses in his retreat, clearly unconvinced, then shoots a glance back at Dean.  Despite the continued urge to get the fuck out of dodge, Dean nods at him.  That seems to be enough for Stuart, who edges forward again, just close enough that Cas can lightly stroke his snout.

“Thank you,” Cas says quietly, meeting the rat’s eyes, “for bringing him back to me.  To us.”

Stuart makes a low chuffing sound, then squeaks.  Cas chuckles.  “No,” he says, “I have no intention of hurting him,” he pauses again, reconsidering, and adds, “in any permanent way, and certainly not in any way he doesn’t have coming to him.”

Another pause, and then Cas laughs again. “I would imagine so,” he tells the rat, “but did you—“

Dean can’t take it anymore.  He’s pretty fucking sure he knows exactly what’s going on here, but he has to have it verified.  “You speak _rat?!”_ he demands, breaking in on what appears to be a two-way conversation.

“I speak every language ever conceived on this planet, and can communicate with any living thing,” Cas says coolly, skewering Dean with a glance, “and you know how I feel about your tendency to interrupt, Dean.”

Dean shuts the fuck up, exchanging a glance with Sam, who has stuffed his hand into his own mouth in order to control his giggles.  Dean guesses in different circumstances, he’d probably find the whole thing hilarious, too.  As it is, he’s too busy trying to memorize what it feels like to have a painless ass, since he’s pretty fucking sure that ship is about to sail.

Cas goes back and forth with the rat for a brief time, clearly warming even further to Stuart (it’s hard not to, honestly).  From what Dean can glean from Cas’s side of the conversation, the rat seems to view Dean with slightly long-suffering (not fair, by the way, since Dean’s only known the guy for maybe an hour) indulgence.  Apparently Stuart and Cas are kindred spirits.

If not for Dean’s ankle, he would’ve gone ahead and dismounted by now, but he’s pretty sure that Cas’s already prominent displeasure with him is going to be multiplied rather dramatically when he realizes that Dean’s injured on top of everything else.  Cas dislikes it in the extreme when Dean is reckless with his own health or safety.  He dislikes it even more when that recklessness has predictable results.  So, yeah, he’s gonna have to climb off Stuart at some point, but he’s down with delaying the inevitable while Cas bonds with the rat.

 “And how did you come upon Dean in the first place, friend?” Cas inquires, still crouched on one knee, lightly petting Stuart from time to time.  Finally Dean has to interject again, because why the hell is Cas having this conversation with a fucking rat (no matter how much Dean may like the rat in question) when he could just ask Dean?

“You know, Cas, I’d be more than happy to tell you about the whole—no? No.  Okay. Yup.  I’ll just…wait here then.”  It doesn’t take more than a single sharp glance from Cas to start him babbling.  The glance that follows on its heels is more than enough to silence that, as well.  Cas turns politely back to Stuart, and that’s when Dean realizes what’s about to happen—at least five seconds too late to do anything about it (not that he would’ve known what the fuck to do in any case).

“Oh, really? And where is—oh, I see,” Cas says thoughtfully, glancing briefly over his shoulder at Sam.  Presumably Stuart has just filled Cas in on Gregor’s role in the proceedings, which means he’s gonna relay why Gregor went to get Stuart in the first place, and—oh, _fuck._

“He _what?”_ Cas suddenly says, his tone sharp enough to slice Dean into ribbons of squirming anxiety, and yeah, Dean’s fucked.  Cas just found out about his ankle.  Dean would bet money on it.  “I thank you,” Cas says, modulating his tone with what is clearly a great deal of effort, “for rescuing him from the aftereffects of his own stupidity, in that case.”  Sure enough, Cas rises abruptly, stepping around to Stuart’s other side.  For the first time since Dean’s return, Cas touches him, crouching once more and taking Dean’s ankle between his hands.  Despite the fact that Cas is furious with him _and_ reaching for a painful injury, Dean doesn’t flinch.  Cas would never hurt him—not really.  Not like that.

Indeed, the angel’s hands are gentle as they inspect the ankle.  If Dean didn’t know Cas as well as he does it would be jarring, the contrast between the thunderous fury in Cas’s face as he stares at the swollen joint and the careful softness of his hands as he cradles it.  As it is, Dean sees no contradiction.  Cas sees it as his mission and his calling to protect Dean and keep him safe.  He has since the moment he hauled Dean out of hell.  Anything that gets in the way of him carrying out that mission—including Dean himself—is in Serious Fucking Trouble.  He deals with such threats promptly, but that’s always his second priority.  His first is to ensure that Dean is whole and unharmed.  As such, it comes as no surprise to Dean when Cas closes his eyes, a familiar expression of concentration briefly eclipsing the anger on his face.

Dean blinks, and in the split second in which his eyes close the throbbing is gone, his ankle returned to its normal size and shape.

The instant the healing is complete, Cas drops his ankle like a hot potato, stepping back and setting his jaw.  He doesn’t say a word to Dean, doesn’t even look at him.  Instead he turns to Sam, waving an arm to get the kid’s attention.  Sam, who has been watching the situation develop with a face that keeps wandering back and forth between bemused and amused, leans in a little closer.  “What’s up, Cas?”

“Please take Dean to the library and deposit him back in the box, then return so that you and I may take care of what I discussed with you earlier.”  Wait, what?  What the fuck were they discussing earlier?  What’s so important that it takes precedence over dealing with Dean directly?  Dean opens his mouth to protest, to ask, to say _something—_ and then snaps it shut again as Cas’s eyes swing up to meet his for half a second. 

Nope.  Nuh uh.  Abort mission.  Dean may lack an effective sense of self-preservation, but he knows enough to stay silent when faced with that look.  Cas is _pissed._ Actually, no.  Pissed doesn’t even begin to cover it.  Cas is _livid._ Furious.  Enraged.  Beside himself.  More synonyms Dean doesn’t currently remember.  He’s so angry that he’s deliberately separating himself off from Dean in order to give himself time to cool off some.  Dean needs to not push him.

Cas nods once, seeing that Dean has thought the better of making an already bad situation worse, and turns his face back up to Sam, who’s nodding.  “Can do.  Uh…what do we do about…the rat?” Sam adds delicately.

“His name is—well, it’s not something that can be pronounced in English, but he has taken to Dean’s nickname for him well and requests that we continue to refer to him as ‘Stuart.’  It is also rude to speak of him as though he is not here,” Cas adds, fixing Sam with an admonishing look, “but in answer to your question, Stuart is a free ma—er, rat.  He may do as he pleases.”  Sam looks appropriately chastened by Cas which, given their relative sizes, would be hilarious if Dean currently had the capacity for any emotions beyond stomach-churning anxiety and guilt.  In the meantime, Cas has returned to discussion with Stuart.  “Yes, I think that is an excellent idea,” he tells the rat, “and indeed I will feel better knowing that you are keeping an eye on him.  Sam, Stuart will accompany Dean, and gives his permission for you to carry him in service of that aim.”

Sam, bless him, doesn’t even blink at this, just nods and extends a hand.  Stuart climbs aboard with Dean still astride his back.  Before Sam can lift them, though, Cas sets a tiny hand on one of his fingers, pausing him.  For the first time since rebuking him for interrupting, Cas meets Dean’s eyes and speaks to him.

“I cannot imagine that I need to say this, but for the sake of perfect clarity I will do so regardless.  You are not to leave the table.  In fact, you are not to leave the box.  You are to think about what you have done.  You know what I expect.”

Dean swallows hard and nods, but he knows immediately that’s not good enough—even before Cas raises a single, challenging brow at him.  Clearing his throat past an unwelcome lump, he finds his voice, even if it’s a little squeakier than even his size can account for.  “Yes, Sir.”

Cas nods once, then breaks eye contact to look up at Sam, nodding again.  A moment later Dean is squeezing his eyes shut as he soars far above the stone floor, still clinging to Stuart.

~*~

Dean _does_ know what Cas expects.  By the time Cas comes to him, Dean should be able to sum up coherently what he did wrong and why Cas is going to punish him.

And then he’s gotta ask for it.

That part evolved pretty quickly after the whole punishment thing first came into play between them.  Cas realized with little delay that in order for this dynamic to have the intended impact, it needs to be clear to both of them at all times that Dean chose this.  That no matter how much Dean dislikes getting his ass handed to him in circumstances like these, he acknowledges that he needs it, that he’s agreed to them doing things this way, that he knows he has it coming to him.

In the case of more minor offenses, Cas has nothing against turning Dean ass-up and imparting a timely reminder into his backside without any of the pomp and circumstance, but at times like this?  When Dean has a serious punishment coming to him, when he fucks up royally, disobeys direct orders, puts himself in danger, goes off half-cocked (or as the case may be, all of the above)?  There’s a protocol.

Dean can refuse to follow it, sure.  And if he doesn’t ask for the punishment, Cas won’t give it to him.  Won’t lay a finger on him.  On the surface it looks like an easy way to avoid the consequences of his actions—and in fact, when Cas first proposed this way of doing things, Dean was delighted to think he’d been given a ready-made Get Out of Jail Free card.

Turns out that’s not actually how it works, because if he doesn’t ask for it, there’s no resolution.  Cas won’t punish him, sure, but he also won’t forgive him, not right away.  Not the way he will when they work it out immediately (and through the seat of Dean’s pants).  Cas will be disappointed in him in a whole new way—and he’s already so disappointed.  It’ll be seen as proof that Dean really isn’t ready or willing to accept the consequences of his actions.

That would be bad enough, but it’s not the worst of it.  _Dean_ won’t be able to forgive _himself_ , either.  The guilt he’s already feeling, the crushing feeling of having hurt, having disappointed the people he loves most?  It’ll eat him alive.  The lack of closure will shred him from the inside out.  He’ll stop sleeping, he’ll drink too much, he’ll make even more reckless decisions—it’s a bad scene.  They’ve been here before.  And in the end, he might make it a couple days, maybe even a week, but he’d end up asking for it anyway.  Begging for it, even—anything to bring back the feeling of safety, of completion, he has in knowing that Cas will take care of him, take care of everything.

So, yeah, they’re gonna leave him and Stuart alone on the table, and Dean could make another run for it.  He could escape the box, escape the table, maybe even convince Stuart to come with him (although he has his doubts about that, now that Cas has enlisted the rat as an ally).  Or he could stay put, but refuse to play the game by its rules when Cas returns.  He could fail to apologize—hell, he could even apologize profusely but decline to ask for his punishment.  He could do any of those things and more.

He won’t, though.

He’s going to do exactly what Cas expects him to do, something Cas knows every bit as well as Dean does.

But he doesn’t have to like it.

~*~

_Thirty minutes later_

He’s leaking like a fucking sieve.  It’s stupid and juvenile and he hates that this fucking happens every time, but here he is, wiping away tears only to have more hastily take their place.  And it’s not even because of what he’s got coming to him, not really.  He’s certainly not looking forward to that, but the overflow of emotion has more to do with why he’s gonna end up in that position to begin with.

He wanted an adventure, sure, but he went about it all wrong.  Sneaking off, leaving no word, disobeying orders Cas put in place specifically to keep him safe—it did indeed check off every box on Cas’s list.

Deeply stupid.  Infuriatingly Reckless.  Irredeemably Obnoxious.  Yes, yes, and yes.

He _knows_ better.  Or he should, anyway.  He guesses he’s pretty lucky the worst he ended up with was an injured ankle and a couple of new friends.  If he hadn’t encountered Gregor he’d still be down in the ventilation system, probably hopelessly lost, with no way to get back up topside.  And yeah, the whole falling down the heating vent thing was a stroke of rotten luck (and failing to use his powers of observation appropriately, okay), and likely if that hadn’t happened he would’ve ended up with the fairly benign adventure he’d set out for—but that’s beside the point.

He wipes his face again on a corner of the towel (pointlessly, since the tears just keep fucking coming), then covers his eyes with his hand.  A second later Stuart, who curled in a corner of the box and appeared to settle down for a nap immediately upon being deposited in here by Sam, nudges at his arm.  Dean drops his hand and gives the rat a watery smile, fairly sure he sees compassion in the wide eyes gazing at him.  “I’m okay, buddy,” he says, not entirely honestly.  Stuart chuffs in a way that sounds distinctly skeptical, then performs a weird little move, shifting so he can nose his way behind Dean, who was sitting against a cardboard wall.  Dean lets himself be nudged forward, brows wrinkling in confusion until it comes together.

Stuart can’t give him a hug any more than Gregor could—the anatomy is just too different—but he can do this.  He can give Dean the comfort of touch.

Far be it from Dean to refuse.

Stuart settles down comfortably, and Dean leans back against him, as the rat clearly intended.  Stuart chuffs again in satisfaction, then turns his head so that he can rest his chin on Dean’s knee, gazing at him steadily.  Dean strokes his head lightly, not trusting his voice enough to offer his gratitude in words.  Stuart doesn’t seem to mind.  The warmth and comfort of the rat against his back, the soft fur rising and falling with his breathing, soothe Dean in a way that nothing else could.  He still feels like a heel, but a little less like he’s about to fall apart.

He didn’t realize until now just how much his adventure took out of him but suddenly Dean is exhausted.  He tries to fight it—Cas expects things of him, and after his antics today, the least Dean can do is meet those expectations—but it’s no use.  Surrounded by warm fur, soulful dark eyes resting watchfully upon him, Dean drifts off.

~*~

He wakes more than a little disoriented, surprised to discover that he’s covered by something soft and white.  Is it…yeah, it is.  It’s a tissue, of all things, folded in half and tucked over him warmly.

He knows immediately who put it there and shifts, blinking hard and searching the box.

Sure enough, Cas is seated against the opposite wall, watching Dean steadily (and far more calmly than earlier).  Dean jerks away from the soft warmth at his back, sitting upright hastily and wiping his face, trying to clear it of the sticky remnants of dried tears.  He has no idea how long he slept, but he definitely wasn’t supposed to.  He was supposed to be thinking about what he did, not taking a nice nap.  Shit.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to, I—“ the litany of apologies and pleas for forgiveness he was just getting started on is cut off as Cas lifts a single hand.  Dean silences, frustrated to discover that fresh tears have sprung to his eyes.  Jesus Christ, he’s a hot mess.

“You needed it,” Cas tells him, a gentleness underlying his tone that was absent before.  “I am not angry with you for falling asleep.  You underwent a trying ordeal, and displayed great stamina and determination in working to get out of the ventilation system, if Stuart is to be believed.  The fact that you were worn out and required rest does not perturb me.  While you certainly have ample reasons for guilt and apologies,” and here his face settles into sterner lines, his voice hardening a little before it once again softens, “falling asleep is not one of them.  In fact, I feel much better having this…conversation now that you have rested some.”

Dean is briefly floored by the generosity the angel is displaying, even if it shouldn’t come as a shock.  Again, Cas’s primary concern is always Dean’s wellbeing—physically, mentally, and emotionally.  Of course he would recognize why Dean was worn out.  And Dean guesses he can see why it’s preferable for Cas to punish him when he’s not an exhausted wreck.

“Don’t really deserve you,” Dean mumbles, wiping his cheeks.  Cas sighs and rises, coming to sit next to Dean and gathering him into an embrace.  It doesn’t last long—comfort comes _after_ he’s paid the price, not before, generally—but it’s still immeasurably reassuring.

“None of that,” Cas tells him, releasing him and shifting so that he sits facing Dean, a few inches away, “you know how I feel about you denigrating yourself.  You have indeed behaved appallingly today, but we will deal with it and move past it.  This is what we do, yes?”

“Yes,” Dean agrees, sighing and straightening his back a little.  He doesn’t need to be told what happens next—and he wants to prove that he can be good, that he can meet expectations, that he’s not a hopeless case (because no matter what Cas says, when Dean’s really fucked up this bad, it’s hard not to tumble back into the pit of self-loathing that he’s spent so much time in over the years).  He takes a deep breath and starts to speak.  “I disobeyed a direct order to stay on the table.  I snuck off when I knew you didn’t want me to.  I could have fallen off the table and hurt myself, or ended up getting stepped on by Sam.  I wasn’t paying close enough attention to my surroundings and I fell into a heating vent and hurt myself.  I only made it out because I was lucky enough to make a couple friends who inexplicably wanted to help the tiny loser who invaded their space.” He pauses at the warning look from Cas, clear instruction not to talk more shit about himself unless he wants to hear it, then goes on.  “I was deeply stupid, infuriatingly reckless, and irredeemably obnoxious.  I put myself in danger and actually ended up getting injured.  I could have died.  That’s why you’re going to punish me.”

Cas listens to this with relative stoicism, nodding at the end.  “Good.  Yes, that is most of it.  And I am sure the rest will come to you, in time.”

While he’s being punished, is what Cas really means.  It’s amazing how much thinking you can do while having your ass set on fire.  Dean wracks his brain, trying to figure out what he’s missed, what else he needs to apologize for, but it escapes him, hovering just out of reach.

Cas remains silent, watching Dean steadily, waiting.  Dean takes a deep breath.  “I’m sorry, Cas.  I really am.”  Cas nods again in acknowledgment, accepting that Dean is sorry.  But it doesn’t change anything.  He can feel his own face heating, feel the squirming shame in his belly at what he needs to say next.  It takes him a few deep breaths to work himself up to it, but eventually he’s able to grate the words out.  “Please punish me, Sir.”

Cas nods again, a quick flash of approval crossing his face.  Dean feels a hint of warmth blossom in his chest, but it’s still far overshadowed by the weight of Cas’s continued disappointment in him.  He wants more of that approval, wants to make up for what he’s done, wants to pay the price and be able to move on, as Cas said.

The angel rises gracefully to his feet, reaching out a hand to help Dean stand.  He doesn’t need the help and he certainly doesn’t deserve it but he accepts it regardless, raw emotions soothed by the touch.  Still holding Dean’s hand, Cas turns his attention to Stuart.  “Good friend, I would greatly appreciate it if you would consent to wait outside the box while Dean and I take care of this.  I think you will find a towel that you can wait comfortably on some feet down the table.”

Stuart will still be able to hear everything, but Dean is pathetically grateful for at least the illusion of privacy.  He’s sure Cas has sent Sam off to some distant corner of the bunker—public humiliation isn’t the point of this.

Stuart rises and stretches but turns to Dean, nosing at his hand lightly.  Since he doesn’t speak rat, Dean can’t tell if this is just some comfort or if it’s Stuart checking in on whether Dean is okay with him leaving.  Either way, he strokes the soft fur lightly, then nods, “it’s okay, Stuart.  And—whatever you hear, I’m okay.  Really.  I’ve got it coming to me.”

Stuart stands for another moment, shifting his gaze between Cas and Dean, then turns and neatly jumps.  His front paws catch on the top of the cardboard before he scrabbles over, the soft clicking of his claws fading rapidly down the table.

A moment later, Cas’s hand tightens on Dean’s, drawing his attention back to the angel and to what comes next.  Cas seems to know that the litany of his crimes followed by the request for punishment sapped Dean’s remaining willpower, because he doesn’t order him to strip.  Instead he steps forward, deft fingers making short work of the buttons on Dean’s flannel.  Dean kicks off his shoes while Cas helps him out of the flannel, leaving his undershirt in place—which somehow just makes the whole thing more humiliating.  It emphasizes that this is not a sexual thing; it’s a punishment, plain and simple.

Cas hands Dean his flannel to fold (Dean still thinks it’s ridiculous to bother, but he knows better than to argue at the moment) while he goes to work on Dean’s belt.  Dean wonders with a sinking sensation whether the belt in question is about to be used on his ass.  He figures it’s a pretty safe bet since Cas’s usual array of implements isn’t currently available to them at their present size, and he’s not foolish enough to think that Cas’ll be satisfied with using his hand.  Hand spankings are for minor offenses.  For too-bratty pranks and small disobedience and the ‘reminders’ that Cas so enjoys providing when Dean’s somehow managed to avoid actual punishment for longer than three or four days.  This was not a minor offense.

So he’s a little surprised when Cas sets the belt aside with hardly a second look before unfastening Dean’s jeans and unceremoniously jerking them down to his ankles along with his boxers.  He helps Dean step out of them, then hands them over to be folded as well, waiting with his arms crossed over his chest as Dean does so.  Once he’s set them aside, Dean is left naked from the waist down except for his socks, only a t-shirt on up top, and feeling twice as exposed as if he were actually naked.  His cock is soft, not at all interested in the proceedings.  In other circumstances, it would be standing at attention—Cas has been known to bring him to the brink of orgasm with a good spanking—but not when he’s actually being punished.  And the pain Cas intends on causing is likely to well surpass what Dean would enjoy even under sexy circumstances.

Cas takes his upper arm and steers him over to the side of the box that Dean hadn’t bothered to glance in since waking up.  He blinks in surprise at the new fixtures waiting over there.  Tucked into the corner is a box of coasters that’s about three inches high—the perfect height for Dean to bend over.  Next to it is what looks like the portion of a cell phone charger that gets plugged into the wall.  The actual cord has been detached, leaving a small white square of plastic that’s about an inch and a quarter tall.  Perfect height for someone to—sure enough, Cas leads Dean over to the charger, sits down on it, and neatly turns Dean over his knees, planting his left hand on the small of his back to keep him in place.

“A small warm-up before we get started,” Cas tells him, and Dean’s stomach drops.  Cas generally avoids warm-ups for punishments, since it hurts more without one.  Since cutting down the pain is clearly not what he’s aiming at, he must be aiming to decrease bruising which means he plans on a long and hard punishment.

Dean doesn’t have long to think about it because Cas’s hand starts to fall, laying measured smacks down, unrushed but not drawing it out.  Christ, the angel’s hand can feel like a two-by-four when he wants it to, and by the time he’s covered Dean’s ass and thighs at least twice, Dean has to force himself not to squirm.  It’s nothing he can’t handle, but it sure as hell stings.

“You know,” Cas speaks at last, pausing and smoothing his hand over Dean’s ass, “I do not particularly enjoy punishing you.” Two smacks fall on the meatiest part of each ass cheek.  Dean grimaces but stays still.  “I would much rather have you over my knee for our mutual enjoyment.  And had you simply waited outside the box as I asked of you,” his hand peppers Dean’s thighs liberally and Dean hisses out a low breath, “we could certainly have arranged that.  In fact, I had every intention of ceasing my unsuccessful attempts to regrow myself with my grace and turning my attention to you when we discovered your absence.  Imagine how differently this afternoon could have looked, had you simply done as you were told.”  He punctuates this with a final round of swats before removing his hand from Dean’s back.  “Up.”

Dean obeys, climbing to his feet, feeling even more wretched at the knowledge that if he’d been patient for another half hour he could’ve had a nice afternoon of play with Cas instead of…all the shit that’s happened instead.  As far as his ass goes—well, he certainly feels the tingling sting from the brief spanking, but considering what he and Cas get up to, it would be barely worthy of mention if it wasn’t the precursor to something a lot worse.

“Bend over the coasters,” Cas says.  Dean shuffles over there, reluctant but not foolish enough to really drag his feet.  Cas simply watches him, face stern and impassive.  He gives Dean a single nod when he glances back over his shoulder at the angel.  With nothing to delay him further, Dean goes ahead and bends over.

Cas estimated well.  The box is the perfect height for this, just about the same height as a table or the back of a chair.  Dean takes a second to wonder miserably what Cas is planning on using—he still hasn’t gone to retrieve Dean’s belt.  As if reading Dean’s mind, Cas speaks again.  “Sam was kind enough to cut a short length off of one of the leather shoelaces from his loafers.  We will begin with that and finish up with the toothpick.”  In other circumstances, this would be hilarious.  A leather shoelace as a strap?  A toothpick instead of a cane?  Jesus, Cas is the fucking MacGyver of spanking.

As it is, he does have to suppress a snort (he’s pretty sure Cas would not take kindly to Dean expressing anything but the utmost remorse at the moment)—but that only lasts until the sound of a sharp crack is followed up by searing pain suffusing the top third of his ass.  Jesus Christ, no wonder Cas decided to go with this fucking thing.  It’s heavier than the belt and dramatically wider, able to cover a large portion of his ass in a single blow.  It’ll get the job done a great deal more efficiently, Dean supposes, inhaling sharply.

It takes him a second to realize that one of the usual pieces of their ritual was missing, and he’s on the verge of asking when Cas again answers the unspoken question.

“I have a number in mind, although as always it is subject to adjustment.  I do not, however, have any intention of informing you what that number is.  When you sort out why that is, I will be eager to hear your thoughts.”

Fuck.  _Fuck._ A punishment is so much easier to take when there’s an end in sight. When there’s something to count down to.  When you know what’s coming.  Why is Cas taking that from him?

There’s a lesson in this; he’s sure of it.  Whatever he didn’t cover when he told Cas why he was being punished—it’s hidden in there.  Or maybe right out in plain sight, but Dean’s too obtuse to see it.  He doesn’t get a chance to think about it more, because the second he provides the expected response, Cas sets to his task.

“Yes, Sir,” Dean tells him, and barely has time to cringe at the sound of the makeshift strap whistling through the air before it lands again, just next to the first stripe.  Dean grunts, unable to stop himself.  Cas is unperturbed—Dean knows he’s aiming for much louder noises before he considers his job done, and after another three hits fall, covering the rest of his ass down to mid-thigh, Dean’s quite sure those sounds are coming.

Cas somehow has always known the perfect length of time to wait between hits.  Just long enough for the pain to peak, for Dean to really feel each individual stripe, and not so long that he can really start to recover.  It means the pain just builds on itself, both the surface sting and the deeper throb growing ever more intense.

By the time Cas pauses for his first break, Dean is breathing hard, hands clenched into fists beside his head, feet still planted on the cardboard floor only by virtue of a lifetime of building his pain tolerance.

“How are you doing, Dean?”

Dean doesn’t have the benefit of a safeword here—not while he’s being punished—so he can’t make it stop at any moment.  He can, however, request a break whenever he needs one, and it’s rare that Cas ignores such a request.  Honestly, he tries not to ask if he can avoid it, even though he knows that’s probably a function of his own unhealthy macho tendencies.  Cas has an instinct, regardless, and seems to know when to pause and let Dean catch his breath.

“I’m okay, Sir,” he tells Cas after a moment, voice unsteady.  He’s not crying yet, not really.  The occasional tear is leaking, but he’s still in pretty good control of himself—which tells him they’re not anywhere close to done.

“Very good,” Cas tells him, and the strap falls again.

He’s not sure how many more times it falls before he can’t keep his sounds in any longer, but now he’s crying out with each fall, breath coming in harsh gasps.  His eyes are swimming but he blinks the tears back, wanting to be brave, wanting to take his punishment well.

It doesn’t matter, though.  Cas will push him past the point of his self-control.  That’s kind of the whole point—one of the ways he knows the lesson is really sinking in.

The strap continues its descent, and before long Dean hears himself starting to apologize, to plead.  Cas is unmoved, and the strap falls another four or five times before he pauses once more.

The tears have overflowed his eyes by now, but he hasn’t devolved into full-on weeping.  Yet.  His pleas spiral into silence as he tries to catch his breath, fingernails digging hard into the top of the wooden box.

“Anything you wish to say to me?” Cas inquires, his voice far too composed for someone who has to be working up a sweat, as hard as he’s swinging that heavy strap.

“I’m sorry, Sir, I’m sorry, I’m _so_ sorry,” Dean whimpers, pressing his forehead hard against the box.  Cas’s hand settles lightly on Dean’s ass and he flinches a little, unable to stop himself.

“I know you are, Dean.  But I need you more than sorry.  I need you to understand, and I need the consequences to be severe enough that you think twice and then a third time before ever doing anything like that again.”

“Yes, Sir,” he grates out, knowing that as soon as the acknowledgment comes it’s going to start again.

He’s not wrong.

Cas paints every inch of his ass and thighs, focusing perhaps a little more attention on that sensitive spot where the two meet.  Before long, Dean has to let the box take on all of his weight, unable to keep his feet down.  It’s all he can do not to kick them up in an attempt to shield the targeted area.

A few more and he really starts to unravel, leaking tears bleeding into open sobbing.  Cas is damn good with a strap, and by now Dean’s regretting the hell out of his latest adventure, along with pretty much everything he’s ever done wrong in his life.  He doesn’t even know what he’s saying anymore and it’s probably unintelligible anyway, and still it goes on.  There’s nothing to count down toward, no end in sight, no relief on the horizon.  He just has to wait and suffer and endure.  There’s something about the uncertainty that somehow multiplies the pain and anxiety, makes everything worse, and—oh.  _Oh._ That’s it, isn’t it?

“Sir,” he garbles out, “w—wait, Sir, wait, I kn—know, I—“

There’s something about this plea that is very different from the desperate begging Dean’s already been doing.  Cas recognizes it and responds, stopping.

“Yes, Dean? Is there something you would like to say to me?  Perhaps something you have worked out?”

It’s not nearly as condescending as the words might seem to indicate.  He’s really asking what Dean has figured out.  He’s not enjoying this—it’s not fun for him to reduce Dean to this state.  He _wants_ Dean to grasp the lesson.  Dean knows this.

Still, it takes him a minute before he can string the words together, before he can catch his breath and find a way to say what he’s figured out.

“I _scared_ you and S-s-sam,” he whimpers at last, “really bad.  You d-didn’t know where I was or what had h-h-happened to me.  You didn’t know if you would ever f-find me.  I d-d-didn’t think about what it would be like for you to discover I was gone with no way to find me.  And you c-couldn’t do anything else while you were trying to find me.  I messed everything up, wasted time that we could’ve been working on figuring out how to regrow us.  I was s-selfish and stupid.”  His voice is a wreck, his words sometimes so garbled by tears and misery that it’s a miracle Cas can sort out what he’s saying, but the angel has always understood Dean—even when he didn’t understand himself.

A hand comes to rest, strong but gentle, on Dean’s back, rubbing lightly, soothing him.  “Yes,” Cas says, his voice a great deal gentler, “you did scare us.  And yes, you were selfish.  You did not, however, ‘mess everything up.’  We are in no worse a state than we were several hours ago.  Hold yourself accountable for the things that you did, but do not place more at your own feet than you deserve.”

“I’m s-s-so sorry, Cas,” Dean sobs, breaking into a fresh wave of regretful tears.  Jesus, he’s ashamed of himself.  How fucking selfish do you have to be not to even think about how worried the people who love you are gonna be when you vanish without a trace?  What kind of asshole _does_ that?  The pain in his ass—which is still bordering on indescribable—suddenly seems like no more than he deserves.

“I know you are,” Cas tells him, that hand continuing to rub his back, “and I forgive you.  Almost done.”

Those words break something open inside Dean.  He has no right to ask for or expect forgiveness for the pain he put Sam and Cas through, but Cas offers it regardless.

Dean doesn’t even try to steel himself against the blows when they start to fall again, just lets them reverberate through him, lying limply across the wood, letting his tears drip from his face and soak into it.

Cas wasn’t lying—the strap falls no more than another five or six times before it stops and he sets it aside.  Dean can’t feel the relief of a punishment served yet, because he knows they’re not done.  For truly terrible infractions, Cas closes the proceedings out with Dean’s least favorite implement, and sure enough, Dean can see him take up a toothpick—which is actually pretty much the perfect size to serve as a cane at their current proportions.  Now that Dean understands the lesson, Cas dispenses with the uncertainty.  Dean has never been so grateful for anything in his life.

“Six,” Cas tells him, “and no need to count for me.”

Dean might try to brace himself if he thought it would do anything, but as things stand, his ass and thighs already feel ten times their normal size, hot and swollen and burning as intensely as if he’d seated himself on a stove.  It’s going to be hellish no matter what, so he just closes his eyes and waits.

The swish of the air parting around the cane makes him cringe, but not nearly as much as the first line of searing agony laid across his ass does.  He cries out, unable to stop himself, more tears spurting out.

The second and third follow quickly, and by the time Cas delivers the fourth and fifth strokes, Dean is wailing.  The momentary hesitation tells him that Cas would really very much like not to deliver the final stroke, but he’s a man of his word.  It falls just across the line where his thighs meet his ass, and Dean turns his head toward his arm to stifle what is very nearly a scream.

Cas gives him a moment to find his breath before very carefully wrapping an arm around his waist and helping him upright.  Dean turns and drops to his knees, burying his face in the angel’s tiny trenchcoat, sobbing.  One of Cas's hands cups the back of his neck tenderly while the other cards through his hair, that beloved voice shushing him softly.  Dean is still apologizing, begging for the forgiveness he’s already been granted.  Cas lets it go on for a few moments, until Dean’s shoulders aren’t shaking quite as hard. Then he carefully unwinds Dean’s fingers from his clothing and sits down, drawing Dean into his lap, cradling him close and rocking slowly back and forth, murmuring soft words of love and assurances of forgiveness.  The pressure of Cas’s thighs against his seared backside hurts like hell, but it’s worth it for the comfort he’s being offered.  Dean can’t begin to say how long it takes, but when his breath has finally started to come more evenly and the tears have petered out, Cas lifts his head with a single finger on his chin, pressing a light kiss to his lips.

“My good boy,” he tells Dean, who has to bite his lip not to argue.  Cas shakes his head, settling his forehead against Dean’s, “you are,” he assures Dean, “even when you do not behave as I would like, at the core you are always my good boy.  You _want_ to be good, Dean, and I am here to help you remember it when your decisions do not reflect that.”  Dean opens his mouth to apologize again, and Cas responds to the words before he can speak them.  “Shhh, no more of that.  You are forgiven.  You still owe Sam an apology for frightening him, but between us, this is over.  You have paid the price for your errors, you will not do it again.  You took your punishment very well.  I am proud of you, Dean.”

Dean buries his face in the angel’s shoulder, his face flushing nearly as hot as his ass.  Cas lets him, hand continuing to card through Dean’s hair, gravelly voice crooning words that Dean grabs onto and clutches close to him, guarding greedily.

“My good boy.  Always my good boy.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter-specific tags and warnings: Severe corporal punishment (emphasis on the punishment) in a domestic discipline style relationship (and thus without access to a safeword; not SSC by BDSM standards but, again, this is NOT a BDSM relationship in the traditional sense) with hand, strap, and cane (or reasonable facsimiles thereof, size notwithstanding). There's an argument to be made that there's some semi-public humiliation to it, since Stuart Big, our rat friend, could almost certainly hear most of what transpired. Nevertheless, Cas did his best to ensure Dean had as much privacy as was possible.
> 
> AUTHOR'S NOTE:
> 
> This chapter was a challenge to write, probably because it was so important. It establishes much more clearly than anything prior to now the dynamic in Dean and Cas’s relationship. Part of me wishes I could’ve eased you into it rather than throwing you into the deep end of Serious Infraction and Serious Punishment, but this is where the story took us. I promise you’ll get to see more of the playful side of their relationship moving forward. It’s NOT always this heavy.
> 
> Now. Bringing this extra-long chapter to you was a team effort, y’all. So, so much love goes out to [Dangerousnotbroken](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Dangerousnotbroken/pseuds/Dangerousnotbroken) and [Deadmockingbirds](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Deadmockingbirds/pseuds/Deadmockingbirds) for beta-reading. Extra massive gratitude goes out to Mock, who not only betaed but took a lot of time out of a very busy schedule to give me advice, thoughts, and guidance on writing a domestic discipline relationship, which is new for me. Anything I’ve captured properly or that speaks to you is largely due to her aid. Anything I’ve royally fucked up is entirely on me. I’ve told you this before, but if the domestic discipline dynamic interests you, you should go read everything she’s ever written. Actually, you should do that either way, because it’s really freaking good.
> 
> Also, cause I have been consistently forgetting to say so in this story so far: come find me on [tumblr](http://KreweOfImp.tumblr.com)!


	5. It's a Small, Small World

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which we discover what Sam's been up to (spoiler alert: he's NEVER gonna live this one down) and it's a good thing Dean is secure in his masculinity.

Despite the nap he took earlier (which Cas will later inform him was quite short—no more than forty-five minutes), Dean is completely drained by the time he’s cried himself out.  This is par for the course when it comes to the most severe punishments Cas metes out—they are, after all, incredibly demanding, both physically and emotionally.  Once the tears have finally ceased completely, leaving behind only a swollen face, red eyes, and the occasional hiccup, Dean finds his eyes irresistibly heavy.  When he realizes he’s almost certainly going to fall asleep, he makes a move to climb out of Cas’s lap.  Cas has already had to take too much time out of his day to deal with Dean’s acting out and the fallout from it.  Dean won’t ask him to sit around, no doubt bored out of his mind for an unknown length of time while Dean passes out on him.

Cas, however, has other ideas.  As Dean starts to rouse himself, Cas’s arms tighten further around him, settling him more firmly into his lap.  Dean squirms a little, his voice heavy with exhaustion.  “No, Cas, ‘m falling asleep.  ‘ma let you up first so you c’n…do stuff.  Wasted enough time today.”

“Nonsense,” Cas says, his voice both gentle and brooking no argument, “there is no ‘stuff’ I would rather be doing, and you are never a waste of my time.  Rest now, love.”  Dean opens his mouth to protest, but his eyes are absolutely refusing to stay open long enough for him to engage in a rational discussion with Cas about why this is unnecessary, why Dean will be just fine curling up under the tissue again.  He makes a low sound of disagreement but that’s the best he can manage as Cas’s deft fingers start to gently rub the back of his neck.  The fading echo of that somehow still stern-but-gentle voice ushers him into oblivion. “Shhhh, that’s it. Let go. I’ve got you.”

Safe, warm, and dimly conscious of the throbbing in his ass that somehow means security and love, Dean heeds the soft-spoken instruction, the thrumming of Cas’s heartbeat against his ear ushering him into darkness.  He lets go.

The world falls away.

~*~

The first thing Dean becomes aware of when consciousness returns is that his ass is  _ pissed.   _ He can feel his heartbeat throbbing in the welts left by the cane.  His entire backside and upper thighs are tender and swollen, and he’d bet a lot that they’re still a startling shade of red, with some fairly mild underlying bruising just starting to rise to the surface.  They’ve been here enough times that Dean’s gotten pretty good at predicting what the aftereffects of any given punishment are likely to be.  It’s incredibly rare that Dean earns himself something that will actually leave behind true bruises, but it’s largely immaterial anyway.  Cas’s attitude about such things is simple—the spanking itself is the punishment.  While a bit of a reminder in the form of a tender ass for a day or two is certainly acceptable (even desirable, according to him—Dean takes leave to disagree with that assessment), real bruising is not the intent.  Dean takes a silent bet with himself that Cas will heal him up good as new within forty-eight hours—maybe sooner, if he feels Dean has really taken the lesson to heart well enough that he can be spared any further reminders.  

Of course, part of this is that Dean has a tendency to mouth his way into at least some manner of spanking most days (what can he say? He’s got a smart mouth.  And he likes to push boundaries.  A lot.) and Cas won’t deliver one punishment over the bruises left by another.  As far as that goes, Cas healing him up is not an entirely kind gesture on his part—it’s more like cleaning off his canvas in advance of starting his next painting.

Setting that aside in favor of current events, Dean registers that Cas’s fingers are lightly stroking his face, caressing his cheeks, sliding down the bridge of his nose, brushing the short spikes of hair off his forehead.  Still closer to asleep than awake—despite the insistent messages his ass is sending him about disliking the pressure of Cas’s thighs, Dean burrows down a little further, turning his head into the warm, firm chest and wordlessly whining in protest.  The chest in question vibrates with a low chuckle as Cas’s lips press briefly against the top of his head.

“I know,” the gravelly voice croons, “but Sam will be back shortly, and I thought perhaps you would prefer to be dressed when he arrives.”

Okay,  _ that  _ gets Dean’s attention.  He grunts, cracking one eye open.  “Back?  Where’d he go?” He demands, voice still a little raw from his earlier weeping.

“He had several errands to run,” Cas says noncommittally, “a few things to pick up.  I thought it best he do so at a time when we required privacy, in any case.”  Dean knows better than to think he’s likely to get more of an answer than that.  Cas isn’t a big fan of eye-rolling but since he can’t see Dean’s face, Dean goes ahead and rolls his eyes anyway, starting to stretch before the additional pressure on his ass brings him up short, wincing.  The quiet, possessively satisfied rumble from Cas serves as a reminder that although the angel does not particularly enjoy punishing him, he does get a certain satisfaction out of seeing the aftereffects.  Dean guesses this has to do with the fact that spanking was something they had plenty of experience with even before the actual discipline part of their relationship came to be.  Prior to that, it was always a sexual thing, so Cas is kind of conditioned to have sexy associations with Dean’s reddened ass.  Come to that, so is Dean.  It made for some complications before they both decided that if they happened to feel particularly…amorous once a punishment had been assigned and served, it was nobody’s business but their own.

Actually, now that he thinks about it, Dean is pretty sure he can feel a telltale swelling in the suit pants his ass is currently cradled against.  He snorts a little, drawing back enough to raise his eyebrows at Cas.  “Seriously, Cas?” He demands, voice still a little thick with sleep.   _ “Now?” _

Cas, as usual, is totally unabashed.  “You cannot imagine how appealing you looked, sleeping so sweetly, that red bottom nestled bare against my lap.  It would take a stronger creature than I to entirely resist such temptation.”

Dean can’t resist shifting just a little, nestling the bottom in question a little more snugly against the bulge in Cas’s pants.  He’d be lying if he said he wasn’t affected by the idea of Cas buried between his martyred cheeks, despite (or maybe because of) the fact that the angel never goes easy on him, no matter how well-punished his ass is.  Anyway, if Sam’s about to be back, there isn’t likely to be time now, so his squirming amounts to little more than teasing—something Cas is perfectly well aware of.

“Be careful, my red-bottomed love,” Cas warns smoothly, “there is a certain danger in writing a check you know perfectly well there is no time to cash.  I have an extraordinarily long memory, and Sam cannot be here around the clock.  I may not have time to make use of that ass now, but the opportunity is sure to arise, by and by.”

Jesus.  If Cas was hoping to put Dean off, talking like that is a lousy way to go about it.  Dean stifles a groan in Cas’s chest, then gingerly moves to clamber off his lap.  And if he just so happens to brush the back of one hand across the even-more prominent protrusion in question as he rises, well—it could easily be an accident.

“I’m pretty sure you mean my mouth is writing checks my ass can’t cash, and anyway, I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Dean tells Cas, widening his eyes too-innocently.  The angel’s eyes narrow in response, but he’s not actually angry, as the faint twitch of his lips makes clear.  

“Of course, you do not, and I assure you, your ass  _ will  _ be cashing that check later.” Cas says, his voice impressively neutral for a man whose eyes are flashing with such intent promise. “I presume that you have little desire to squeeze such a naughty bottom,” oh God, forget it, that kind of talk gets Dean every time.  A surreptitious glance down at his own groin confirms what he already knew—Mr. Happy has woken up a lot faster and more enthusiastically than Dean did, “into something as stiff as your jeans.  Perhaps just boxers for now, and there should be more options for you presently.”

That gets Dean’s attention away from his cock.  He pauses in mid-step, halfway to his folded pile of clothes, and turns back to frown at Cas curiously.  “More options?  How do you mean?  Our wardrobes are a little oversized for us at the moment.”

“Never you mind,” Cas tells him smoothly, “you will find out soon enough.  Now, I believe I hear Sam.  May I assist you?”

Cas is almost ridiculously meticulous about consent, especially in the aftermath of a punishment, despite the fact that Dean has never yet rejected his touch.  He gets where it comes from—Cas doesn’t ever want to take advantage of Dean’s vulnerability post-discipline, nor to give off the impression that he doesn’t respect Dean’s bodily autonomy.  It’s a fine, kind of weird line they walk, given the fact that there are times when Dean  _ doesn’t  _ truly have bodily autonomy.  He’s made the conscious decision to give that over to Cas when it’s clear that he’s disregarded the rules set in place for their mutual well-being.  As far as it goes, though, Cas seems to feel that makes it even more important that at all other times, Dean can say “no,” even to something as simple as Cas helping him pour his stiff muscles into his boxers.

“Of course,” Dean tells him, a little annoyed by Cas’s equivocating but nowhere near irritated enough to enter four-year-old ‘I do by self’ level sulking, “thanks.”

Cas rises and comes over to pick up Dean’s boxers, opening them and crouching so that Dean can step into them easily.  He sets a hand on Cas’s shoulder to steady himself, and sure enough, as the angel carefully pulls his boxers up (they still scrape unpleasantly over his raw ass, making Dean grateful that he happened to snag a soft flannel pair this morning.  Anything rougher than that would be miserable), Dean can hear something that sort of sounds like distant, rhythmic thunder growing nearer.  He’s pretty sure those are Sam’s footsteps.  Sheesh—light of foot, he’s not.

Dean’s just shoved his feet back into his shoes when a voice thunders from across the library, making both of them wince.  “Hey, are you two decent?  All finished?”

“We are done, Sam,” Cas bellows at the top of his voice.  There’s a moment of silence.

“Okay, so I’m pretty sure one of you said something,” Sam calls again, just as loud.  They flinch, grimacing at each other, “but it pretty much just sounded like squealing.  So…I’m gonna come over, and if that’s a bad idea, maybe just throw something out of the box.”

A moment later, Sam’s head appears, towering above them, peering down into the box.  Before he can speak, Dean pipes up, scowling at him.  _ “Volume,  _ gigantor.  You don’t have to yell.  We’re little, not deaf, and you’re loud as fuck.”

Sam grimaces a little, apologetically, and when he speaks his voice is far quieter.  “Sorry about that,” he says, “hard to remember how sensitive your ears are.  Anyway, mission accomplished Cas, and then some.”

“Excellent,” Cas says, nodding approval at Sam, “is it already set up?”

“Yeah, I went ahead and put it in your room, figured you guys would like some privacy—and I know there’s shit I don’t want to inadvertently walk in on.”  He makes a face, likely remembering the times (and there have been a fair few of them) when he’s stumbled across something he really doesn’t want to see.

“Is anyone,” Dean demands impatiently, “going to tell me just what the fuck we’re talking about?”

Sam grins down at them, a faintly smug look on his face.  “How about I show you instead?”

Dean glances from Sam to Cas, narrowing his eyes between them.  He’s not entirely sure he likes the sound of this.  His first thought is that Sam has figured out some way to regrow them, but that doesn’t actually seem too likely.  There’d be no reason for all this secrecy if that was the case.  So what the hell can Sam have been devoting his time to, if not researching how to reverse this?

Finally, suspiciously, he nods.  “Okay, fine, but will you go check on Stuart first?”

“Ah,” Cas interrupts, holding up a hand to halt Sam, “that will not be necessary.  He checked in while you were asleep, Dean, and indicated that he was going to go get something to eat and update G—a friend of his on the status of things.  He will find us later and may bring…his friend along.”  Dean is grateful that Cas immediately cottoned on to the necessity for secrecy regarding Gregor, at least until they come up with a plan for how to introduce him to Sam without either of them being traumatized (Sam) or squished (Gregor).  He nods at Cas, mouthing a silent ‘thank you,’ briefly grateful that there is no way in hell Sam can lip-read them at their current size.  Cas gives him a fleeting smile before turning his face back up to Sam.  “If you would, Sam?”

Sam nods, reaching down and carefully snagging the box, lifting it up.  Predictably enough, despite his efforts, Dean and Cas both topple onto their asses as the box soars into the air.  Dean yelps (falling on his ass is a bit more of a trial at the moment than under ordinary circumstances, thanks) and immediately rolls over, opting to spend the rest of the trip stretched out on his stomach on the towel.  Sam, who apparently glanced into the box, whistles low, impressed.  

“Damn, Dean, your thighs are, like, fire-engine level red.”

_ “SAM!”  _  Dean squawks, outraged, reaching over to grab the tissue and jerk it over his lower half, “Not cool, man!”

Sam shrugs a little. “It’s not like I didn’t already know what was gonna happen, dude,” he points out.

“It’s  _ different,” _ Dean insists, annoyed, turning to Cas for support.  The angel, who is comfortably seated cross-legged a few inches away from Dean, simply smiles at him, his meaning pretty clear:  _ if you do not wish your brother to see the aftereffects of your punishments, perhaps you should endeavor not to earn punishments. _

It figures.  Dean should probably know better than to expect any assistance from that corner.  Grumbling under his breath, Dean flips Sam off.  It’s something he can’t often get away with doing to Cas, but the angel deliberately doesn’t interfere in how Sam and Dean interact with each other except in very rare, select situations.

The huff of breath that ruffles Dean’s hair from aloft tells him that Sam is barely managing not to laugh at him, but since he’s way too small to give the kid the whack upside the head that he normally would, he has to let it lie.

No more than thirty seconds later, Dean glances up and catches sight of a massive doorframe passing just above Sam’s Mt. Rushmore-sized head.  He takes a moment to feel a little grouchy that Sam can traverse distances in mere seconds that would take Dean hours, briefly forgetting that just this morning he would’ve been able to cross them just as fast as Sam.  It’s weird how quickly the human mind adjusts to things.  Shaking off the vaguely disquieting sense that if this goes on too long, he might entirely forget what it’s like to be normal sized, Dean focuses instead on carefully clambering to his feet, conveniently using the nearest mostly stationary object (which just so happens to be Castiel’s head) for balance.  Cas tolerates this with relatively good humor, squinting up at Dean with familiar affectionate resignation.

“You know,” Cas observes, as Dean nearly tumbles again, “if you simply waited another thirty seconds or so, there would be no need to use my head as a handle.”

“True,” Dean concedes, “but where’s the fun in that?  And anyway, I wanna see!” Recently punished or no, his irrepressible spirit can’t be kept down long, and he cranes his neck, trying to catch a glimpse of whatever Sam and Cas were talking about as Sam crosses the room.

“And another five seconds would be unlikely to kill you,” Cas points out dryly, his neck somehow managing to keep up with the workout Dean’s inadvertently giving it.

“Sez you,” Dean shoots back absently, just as Sam crouches and sets the box onto the floor.  The resulting jolt serves to completely unbalance Dean, who topples off his feet and into Cas’s lap, landing heavily on his ass with a cry of pain.  From the twin long-suffering exhalations (one enormous enough to ruffle the tissue and Dean’s hair, one a good deal tinier) of breath that emerge from Sam and Cas, Dean appears to be the only one surprised by this development.  He handles it with good humor, anyway, immediately leaping right back onto his feet when the box has stabilized on the floor.

“Out!  I want out!” He demands, lifting up his arms to Sam.  There’s a brief moment in which he remembers a toddler Sammy, tiny voice demanding ‘uppas’ (his very own word when he wanted Dean to scoop him up), but he forcefully banishes the thought.  This is nothing like that.  Because Dean’s older than Sam.  And…other reasons.  That he can’t quite think of at the moment.  But they definitely exist!

“Manners, Dean,” Cas says from behind him, tone distinctly unimpressed.  

Dean exhales loudly and impatiently through his nose before adding (his tone juuust on the right side of whatever-if-you-insist) “I want out  _ please.” _

“You got it,” Sam says, face way too amused for Dean’s liking, but he obligingly leans down and very gently grasps Dean around the chest, lifting him overtop of the box and setting him down on the floor, allowing Dean to get a look at what all the fuss was about.

His first impression is… _ pink.   _ A  _ lot  _ of pink.  Bright pink.  With…butterflies.  And rainbows.  And…is that a unicorn?  Yeah, that’s definitely a unicorn.

Once his eyes manage to resolve the colors (and let’s not even get into the sparkles), Dean actually recognizes what he’s looking at.  It’s a  _ house.   _ Damned if it isn’t a two-story house that looks to be just about the right size for him and Cas.  And that would be pretty fucking awesome.

Except… _ pink.   _ There is really no overstating just how very pink the thing is.  And if the outside is this pink, Dean can only begin to imagine what the inside looks like.

Dean opens his mouth, trying to come up with the appropriate words.  Nothing comes out.  He closes it again, glancing to one side just in time to see Sam’s massive hand descend again, this time bearing Cas along with it.  The angel smiles in satisfaction as he looks from Dean to the house.  “Well?” He says, clearly pleased with the surprise.

Dean’s glad he took a second before speaking, since Cas and—he pauses to glance up at his brother’s mammoth face—yeah, and Sam, both look so bloody pleased with themselves.  He doesn’t want to hurt their feelings, after all.

“Wow,” he says, with as much enthusiasm as he can muster, “that’s…great, you guys.  You got us a pink—shit, I mean a house!  You got us a house!  A…very  _ pink  _ house.”

“Yeah,” Sam says, a little uncomfortably, “well, the selection was…limited.  I sort of had to—but that doesn’t matter.  Why don’t you go check out the inside?”

Okay, there’s something Sam’s not telling them, and Dean’s pretty sure there’s a killer story in there.  He lets it slide for the moment, though, since he’s damn curious about what’s waiting inside.  Marching up to the front door, he tugs on the knob.  It swings open obligingly, letting Dean into an entranceway that looks like a Disney princess threw up all over it.

The sparkles are even more prominent, and the butterfly motif outside was clearly not an outlier.  At least there don’t seem to be any more unicorns?

“That’s, uh.  Great, Sam, wow,” Dean says, pretty sure he’s doing a horrible job of faking enthusiasm.  At least the house seems to magnify his voice enough that Sam hears him, because Dean hears a booming chuckle.

“Try actually going into some of the rooms, Dean.  Sheesh.”

Fair enough.  Dean ventures into what turns out to be the living room, blinking in surprise as he discovers what looks like a real couch, two armchairs, and a coffee table.  “No way, are these for real?”  He runs to fling himself down on the couch and discovers that it’s the real deal—soft and squishy.  “Awesome!”

“Now go upstairs,” Sam recommends, and Dean hops off the couch to scoot back into the entranceway, where he’s pretty sure he spotted some lavender stairs.  Whatever, at least they’re not fucking fuchsia.  This is where he discovers that the house was actually built for dolls (because okay, fine, it’s clearly a fucking dollhouse) that are a little bigger than he and Cas.  He can manage the stairs easily, he just sort of has to clamber up them rather than climbing one-foot-to-a-stair the way he normally would.  It takes a little longer (especially because the movements are pulling at the sore skin on his thighs and ass) but he eventually makes it to the top, not bothering to turn around as he calls back down.

“I can  _ feel  _ your eyes on my ass, Cas.  Stop objectifying me!”

“No, I don’t think I will,” comes the calm response from the foot of the stairs, making Dean snort with laughter.  He pivots enough to stick his tongue out at the quietly amused angel before ducking through the door immediately to his right.  He finds himself in a small room dominated by plastic bassinet.  The fuck?  Sheer perverse curiosity compels Dean to edge forward and peer into what he assumes will be an empty cradle.

He about hits the ceiling, his screech actually rattling the plastic windows in their frames.  Jesus fucking CHRIST.  So…not empty after all.

The “baby,” if you can call it that, appears to be made of plastic.  That wouldn’t be too weird.  Neither would the little pink onesie it’s wearing, or the little white cap on its head.  Nope, all of that is kosher.  What’s  _ not  _ kosher is the lack of a fucking  _ face.   _ No, seriously.  The thing is faceless.  There’s the general shape of facial features—the curve of a nose, a slight suggestion of lips, small indentations where eyes would go—but no actual features.  No…paint or whatever.  It’s just a creepy-ass, blank slate that is somehow managing to stare up at him despite its lack of eyes and that is just a whole barrel of nope.

Dean reaches out and snags it by one plastic arm, hauling it out of the bassinet and treading over to the nearest window.  With one neat kick, he ejects the plastic pane from its frame and sends it flying, then flings the not-baby in its wake.  From above, he hears an intake of exasperated breath.

“Dean!” Sam says, irritation in his voice, “you can’t break the fucking dollhouse!  It’s on  _ loan,  _ okay?”

Dean pokes his head out the window and glares up at Sam, who is still crouching down and thus only a foot or so above his head.  “If you didn’t want me to break it, you should’ve dealt with The Shining over there before telling me to come up here.”

“It’s a  _ doll,  _ for fuck’s sake,” Sam says in total exasperation.  “What the fuck is so awful about—“

_ “Look  _ at it, Sammy,” Dean growls (okay, squeaks, but it’s his growliest squeak, alright?).  

Rolling his eyes, Sam reaches out and plucks the discarded baby doll off the floor, flipping it over to look at it.  He promptly drops it, recoiling in horror. “Holy shit.  Okay, you may have a point.  Christ, that’s fucking creepy.  I’ll get rid of it.”  Dean nods once, satisfied, and pulls his head back into the house, waving a tiny thumbs up out the window when Sam calls in to him, “Anyway, I meant for you to go to the  _ other  _ bedroom, dude.”

Only too happy to abandon this den of creepiness (and let’s not even talk about the miniature mobile, made up of tiny—you guessed it—bright pink unicorns which appear to be farting rainbows, if Dean’s reading them right.  What the fuck?), Dean comes out the door just in time to encounter a very entertained-looking Cas at the top of the stairs.  Seizing the angel’s hand, Dean hauls him down the hallway and into the only other room on this floor.  He is brought up short in the doorway, jaw dropping open as he stares.  Holy fuck.  No wonder Sam was anxious for him to see it.

The room is enormous, gauzy curtains framing the massive windows that line two of its walls—which are blessedly _ not pink.   _ Instead, they’re quite an appealing, smoky sort of purple-grey.  In one corner a loveseat and an armchair are grouped around a (fake) television set, but what really has Dean gaping is the enormous, four-poster canopy bed that dominates the space.  It’s huge, more than big enough for Dean, Cas, and probably three other people their size.  Dean strides over to it, setting a hand atop the covers and pressing.  Yup, it’s as soft as it looks.  Hot damn!  

He turns toward the window, intent upon finding out if one of them will open (the normal way, without breaking it, since the thing is apparently on loan, whatever that means) so he can tell Sam how badass this is.  As it turns out, there’s no need, because the first thing he sees is an enormous eye peering in at him.

_ “Ohholyfuckingshitjesuschristonacrossholymarymotherofgodwhatthefuck,”  _ Dean squeals, scrambling backward until he collides painfully with the bed.  A second later he realizes that the horrifyingly large eye actually belongs to the Sam in question.  Leaning back heavily against the bed (and never mind the protestations from his ass), Dean clutches a hand to his pounding heart and tries to catch his breath, only slowly becoming aware of the soft snorting sounds coming from near the doorway.  He pivots slowly, face already settling into accusing lines at what he’s pretty fucking sure he’s gonna find.

Sure enough, Cas is leaning against the doorframe, one hand over his mouth, laughing so hard that his shoulders are shaking violently.

Dean narrows his eyes into what he hopes are appropriately threatening slits, which just serves to make Cas laugh all the harder.  Not cool!  There was a time when he was actually considered pretty fucking intimidating.  Of course, he hadn’t been five inches tall at the time, but  _ still.   _ “There was a giant  _ eye  _ staring at me,” he hisses at Cas, “it would take anyone by surprise.”

“Oh, indeed,” Cas chortles, “And I certainly do not fault you for being startled.”

“Then  _ what’s your problem?” _ Dean demands, scowling at the angel.

“Suffice it to say that I appreciated your…exclamation.  However blasphemous it may have been,” he adds, slightly sternly (he ruins the effect entirely with another snort).

“Forget it,” Dean grumbles, “I’m not speaking to either of you.”

“Oh, yes, you are,” Cas says, sobering, “I believe a thank you would be in order for Sam, who went out of his way to procure us a place to pass the time until we can undo your magical mishap.  And don’t you have something else to say to him?”  It’s a reminder that Dean needs to apologize to Sammy for scaring him when he went off on his adventure.  Dean sighs, nodding (some things aren’t worth fighting over, especially when your ass is still aflame), and heads for the doorway, scrambling his way back down the stairs, careful not to topple and crack his head open.

He pokes his head out of the door to find Sam, whose face is just a little too somber, suggesting that he’s employing considerable effort not to laugh his ass off at Dean’s startle response, too—even though he probably couldn’t actually hear what made Cas laugh so hard.

“Hey, Sammy?  Look, I’m really sorry for scaring you earlier,” Dean dives right in, knowing that dancing around the topic makes him less likely to actually get around to tackling it, and that he really does owe Sam the apology (not to mention that he doesn’t want Cas to think he’s not actually as sorry as he should be—his ass is quite sorry enough, thanks), “sneaking off was a shitty thing to do.”

“It’s cool,” Sam tells him, “just please don’t do it again?  My heart can’t take it.”  Sam’s not making a big thing of it, but Dean can easily read between the lines and tell just how petrified he must have been.  He feels even more like a shit.  Not knowing a better way to express his contrition, he opens his arms to Sam.

“Bring it in, big guy.”  Sam blinks down at him in surprise, then tilts his head to one side, thoughtfully, as if trying to figure out how to work this.  He knows what Dean’s angling for, that’s not the issue.  The issue is more a logistical one.  Finally, with a small shrug, he brings his massive thumb over, and Dean gives  _ that  _ a bearhug.  Mission accomplished, or close enough.  “I won’t do it again,” Dean says, once he’s done squishing Sam’s thumb.

Sam, meanwhile, is wearing an extremely determined look on his face, and Dean strongly suspects he knows the cause of it.  “Wipe that look off your face,” he tells his not-so-little brother sternly, “and stop thinking that I’m adorable.”

“I plead the fifth,” Sam says, lips twitching, “but if you don’t want me to think you’re cute, giving my thumb big hugs is probably a lousy way to accomplish it.”

“Touché,” Dean admits grudgingly, then glances back at the house, “And hey, thanks for that, too.  It’s great, really.  Could use a paint job, but it’ll be a hell of a lot more comfortable than a cardboard box.  I can’t believe you actually managed to find somewhere to buy a dollhouse in  _ Lebanon.   _ Is there even a toy store?”

“There is, actually,” Sam affirms, but he’s not quite meeting Dean’s eyes, and there’s this hint of high color to his cheeks that Dean’s pretty sure he’s seen before.

“What aren’t you telling me?” Dean demands, narrowing his eyes up at his brother, “I know that face.”

“Nothing!” Sam says, a little too hastily.

“Sam,” Dean says sternly, “where did you get the dollhouse?  And all the furniture?”

“The furniture came from the toy store!” Sam says defensively, “and so did the clothes.  I’ll show you those in a minute.”

Clothes?  Dean is intrigued, as Sam no doubt intended, but not intrigued enough to forget about the issue at hand. “Okay, the furniture came from the store.  Where’d the house come from?”

“It’s a long story,” Sam mutters, face flushing even worse.

_ “Sam,”  _ Dean demands, “tell me you did  _ not  _ steal a dollhouse from some poor little girl’s house.”

“Of course not,” Sam says, offended, “it was a daycare!”  He freezes immediately after speaking, as if realizing that he’s not helping his case.

“You  _ stole  _ from a  _ daycare?”  _ Dean squeaks, not sure whether to laugh hysterically or tell Sam he’s going to hell.  Again.

“I needed to improvise, okay?” Sam says hotly, clearly mortified.

“What, did you go in with your badge and tell them you needed to confiscate it as evidence in a federal investigation?” Dean asks, lips twitching at the idea.

“I was going to,” Sam says, “but then I thought that would just lead to more questions.  So I climbed in the window instead.”

And that does it.  Dean loses it, laughing so hard he hits his knees, bending forward as he tries desperately to get enough air in between fits of hysterics.  The image of Sam, 6’4” Sam, somehow cramming himself through a daycare window to grab a neon pink dollhouse and spirit it away—well, Dean would defy anyone to really imagine that and maintain their composure.  Dean glances up to see Sam, looking  _ extremely  _ put upon as he glares down at him.

A moment later, a voice comes from behind Dean, carefully schooled to neutrality.

“Sam,” says Cas, a little too seriously, “we thank you most sincerely for your efforts on our behalf.  We will endeavor to take excellent care of the house, so that you may return it to its rightful home when it is no longer needed here.”

Dean knows Cas more than well enough to recognize when the angel is just barely holding it together, and Sam appears to have an inkling as well, as he stares down at Cas suspiciously.  “Y’know,” he says grouchily, “it wasn’t as easy as you think.  Daycares have pretty tight security these days.”

“I have no doubt that is so,” Cas assures him gravely as Dean actually starts wheezing, dropping onto his stomach and pounding his tiny fists on the floor as he howls.

“At least you didn’t get caught,” Dean manages to choke out, “imagine trying to explain that to the police.  You’d end up on the sex offender registry for sure.”

“See if I ever do  _ you  _ another favor,” Sam says hotly.  Dean finally catches his breath, blinking back tears of hilarity and carefully clambering to his feet, breathing hard.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry.  It’s just—the mental picture…look, I’m sorry.  We really are grateful, Sam,” he tells his brother, lips trembling violently with the effort to restrain any further laughter.

“Sam,” Cas says solemnly, “perhaps you could go find something—er, bite-sized for Dean to snack on?  And something sufficiently small that he can drink water out of it?  I know he must be getting quite hungry and thirsty.”

Now that Cas mentions it, Dean can feel how hollow his stomach is and how dry his throat is.  Ordinarily, Cas would’ve made him drink at least one big glass of water after a punishment, but since there was no liquid in the box, that sort of got skipped.

“That would be awesome, Sammy,” Dean says sincerely, and Sam nods shortly, climbing to his feet.  Just as he turns away, Dean calls back up to him, “Oh, and Sam?”  Sam pivots, leaning over to hear Dean better, raising a brow, “next time you go shopping in a daycare, see if you can bring home some K’nex.  Those things are awesome!”

Brows knit into a solid line of reproach, Sam huffs off in the direction of the kitchen, leaving Dean and Cas barely stifling snickers in his wake.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Y'all...I swear to God you were gonna get some really good smut this chapter. I literally went into this with two goals, and one of them was smut. And then it got away from me (you'll recognize this theme throughout my fics, if you're familiar with the rest of them). I promise you a lot of really excellent smut coming next chapter. Filthy enough that you should probably already be blushing in advance.
> 
> As you may or may not have noticed, this is Chapter Five. As you may or may not remember, when I posted the first chapter, I estimated that we were looking at about five chapters. As you may or may not have concluded...I was very, very wrong. I'm not even gonna try to revise the estimate. I have not a fucking clue how long this baby's gonna be. There's a whole lot that still has to happen before it's time to wrap it up, and as we know, a whole lot I don't plan for in advance tends to also happen when I start writing.
> 
> With all apologies for the fact that this thing is STILL smutless, I hope the mental picture of Dean staring in horror at a tiny mobile of rainbow-farting unicorns, or possibly of Dean bear-hugging Sam's thumb, or (if all else fails) of Sam climbing in a daycare window to steal a pink, sparkly dollhouse (probably out from under the nose of a highly confused three-year-old) will tide you over in the meantime.
> 
> In any event, I feel like we all needed some lighthearted fluff after the heaviness of last week's chapter--and you cannot imagine how much fun this shit was to write.
> 
> Catch you next week, crew! And if you haven't already, come find me on [tumblr](http://kreweofimp.tumblr.com)!


	6. Small Packages

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Sam goes above and beyond and Cas has technical difficulties--but only in some regards.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks go to [majestic_duck](http://archiveofourown.org/users/majestic_duck/pseuds/majestic_duck) for stepping in as a substitute beta! You're the best!
> 
> Chapter-specific tags and warnings can be found at the end of the chapter.

By the time Sam returns, Dean has already explored every nook and cranny in the house.  The kitchen would be pretty awesome if any of it was functional, but he supposes he can see the arguments against having things that actually get hot enough to cook something inside a house made of plastic—especially since it’s meant for children. 

It means he’ll be dependent on Sam for his meals, but he’s already pretty damn dependent on Sam in his current state anyway.  And he figures he can probably convince the kid to bring him an assortment of tiny snacks to keep him sustained.  After all, his food capacity’s gotta be minuscule.

By the time the rhythmic thudding that heralds Sam’s return starts to shake the floor, Dean doesn’t really give a shit what Sam’s brought him as long as it’s edible and there’s something to drink along with it.  It’s occurred to him in the last couple minutes that annoying Sam just before he went to get Dean something to eat is maybe not the single smartest thing he’s ever done.  Luckily Sam doesn’t tend to be the vengeful type (not like Dean himself).

Dean comes flying out of the house as Sam crosses the room’s threshold, bouncing on his toes in excitement.  Until Cas mentioned it, he hadn’t realized how hungry he was, but he really is ravenous.  It’s been a long damn afternoon.  It was just before lunchtime when the actual shrinking happened and now it’s gotta be…fuck, what time is it?  Dean’s watch was sadly unable to handle being downsized, so while it’s still around Dean’s wrist, it looks like it will forevermore insist that the time is 11:46AM.  Dean kind of wonders whether it might suddenly start functioning again when they return to normal size, but for the moment its only function seems to be making Dean curse every time he reflexively goes to check the time and remembers that it’s just window-dressing.

A single glance at the mammoth figure of his “little” brother reveals a Sam who is clearly quite pleased with himself.  This could either be very good or very bad.  If Sam has somehow managed to construct an itty bitty salad, Dean sort of thinks he might requisition Cas’s toothpick and stab his brother repeatedly in the Achilles tendon.  He knows Sam won’t be able to make out what he’s saying until he’s a lot closer than the doorway, so he waits impatiently until the kid is in the process of crouching, a tea saucer balanced in one enormous hand.

“What is it?  What’d you bring me?” Dean demands, despite the fact that he’s gonna know in about twelve seconds.

Grinning, Sam sets the plate down in front of Dean with a flourish.

“Oh my God,” Dean says weakly, “is that…?”

“Sure is,” Sam confirms, grin widening.

“But…how did you…?” He can’t even finish a sentence at this point; the sight of the impossibly tiny (well; they’re perfectly sized for Dean) cheeseburgers has so moved him.  He thinks he might actually be tearing up as he gazes at the gorgeous things.

“Well,” Sam says, looking as if he doesn’t really know whether to be embarrassed or proud, “have you ever seen those YouTube videos of the guy who makes teeny tiny food for his hamster?”

That manages to grab Dean’s attention away from the burgers, which he has been advancing on as cautiously as if they’re going to grow tiny legs and flee from him.  “I’m sorry, _what?”_

“Yeah, so there’s this dude on youtube, and he—“

“Posts videos of miniature meals that he constructs for his pet hamster,” a gravelly squeak sounds from behind Dean, “I do love those videos,” the angel continues, surprising nobody.  He’s also a fan of cat videos, and has been known to take custody of Dean’s laptop for truly ridiculous amounts of time when he decides a youtube marathon is in order.  Dean’s actually planning on getting Cas his own laptop or maybe an iPad at some point, if only so that he no longer has to wrestle (in one memorable case, literally) his own computer from Cas’s hands. 

At the moment, Sam is nodding approvingly at Cas.  “Yeah, exactly.  I sort of…took a leaf out of his book.  I heated up the leftover burgers from the night before last, then…miniaturized them.”

Dean climbs up onto the tea saucer to examine the burgers more closely.  He can see that they haven’t literally been miniaturized (obviously, since touching the little figurine to inanimate objects doesn’t cause them to shrink), Sam has just cut impossibly tiny slivers of bun, burger, and cheese and managed somehow to construct them into itty bitty burgers with his giant hands.  Dean grabs one, pausing long enough to gaze lovingly at it before he takes a massive bite.

Dean has eaten a lot of burgers in his life.  Like, _a lot_ of burgers.  He’s eaten at least one in every state of the lower forty-eight.  This burger is unquestionably the best one he’s ever had.  Maybe because he’s about as hungry as he’s ever been, maybe because he never would’ve banked on actually getting to eat a burger in his current state.  Whatever the reason, Dean’s groans are arguably even filthier than the ones he makes when Cas is fucking his brains out.  A glance at the angel in question out of the corner of his eye demonstrates that Cas has come to the same conclusion and is fairly offended by it.  Whatever; he’ll recover.

Dean is about halfway through the first burger before he comes up for air, briefly transferring his attention back up to the hulking sasquatch who is watching him with a great deal of satisfaction.  “Sam,” he says fervently, “I take back every bad word I’ve ever said about you, dude.  This is the—this might be the nicest thing anybody’s ever done for me.”

Sam’s lips twitch in that determinedly-refusing-to-laugh way.  His voice is grave when he responds.  “You’re welcome, man.  You’ve had a rough day, I figured a little treat might be in order.”

“You’re the best big-little-brother any guy ever had,” Dean tells him, then carefully drops to his knees in the middle of the saucer to continue his meal (no way in hell he’s sitting unless he absolutely has to for at least the next day or so).

“You’re about to love me even more,” Sam tells him seriously.  “What would make this meal complete?”

“Obviously I’d kill for a beer, but—“ Sam’s face cracks into an enormous grin, “you _didn’t._ Really?!”

“Really,” Sam confirms, very carefully setting down a thimble (the fuck did he find that, anyway?) brimming with beer. 

Forget it, Dean actually tears up.  Carefully setting down his burger, he leaps to his feet and goes flying across the twelve-inch gap separating him from Sam.  The only thing he can currently reach is the kid’s ankle, but he figures that’s good enough.  If he was planning on stabbing it in retaliation for salad earlier, the least he can do is reward it for burgers and beer.  Running full-tilt into it, Dean wraps both arms and legs around the ankle, giving it the kind of full-body hug he doesn’t think he’s given since maybe age four or so. 

He hangs on for a good long minute, ignoring the sounds of spluttering from above and the rhythmic shaking of the ankle in question.  After a few seconds, the sounds resolve into what could properly be termed cackles as Sam loses the battle for control.  Dean finally slides back to the floor, dusting himself off, then turns to see Cas, who is laughing so hard he’s actually wheezing.  Casting the angel a narrow look, Dean heads back for his meal, snagging the beer and taking a long, satisfying draft before coming up for air.  “Walk it off,” he advises Cas a little grumpily, “and keep it to yourself, while you’re at it.  Can’t a man be grateful for a good meal?”

“Oh, to be sure,” Cas chortles, but he actually takes Dean’s advice, setting off for a walk around the exterior of the dollhouse in order to regain his composure.  Dean goes back to his meal as Sam rises to his full height once more.

“Okay,” he thunders from above, forgetting to modulate his voice and making Dean wince.  “Shit, sorry,” he goes on, voice a much more reasonable volume, “I’m gonna go grab your clothes while you eat.  Back in a few.”

Clothes, a house, and burgers and beer.  The evening is shaping up to be a hell of a lot better than the afternoon was, and Dean promises himself he’s gonna do something really fucking nice for Sam once he’s normal sized again.  He should probably also stop poking fun at him for the daycare thing, which is kind of a shame since it’s probably the best ammunition he’s ever gonna have.

Dean is just finishing his second burger when the small earthquakes heralding Sam start up again.  Snagging his beer (God forbid the vibrations from Sam’s footsteps cause it to spill) and taking a final swig that empties the thimble, Dean turns his attention back to Sam.  Cas, who had calmed down by the time he finished his little stroll, leans back against the wall of the house, hands in his trenchcoat pockets as he watches with interest.  From the look on his face, Dean’s pretty sure he doesn’t actually know what Sam came up with in the way of clothes either.

“Okay,” Sam says without preamble, “so this was a little more challenging than the house,” Oh God what an opening, the things Dean could _say—_ but he forces himself to remain stoic as Sam goes on, “I figure you’re somewhere around five inches tall, and there really aren’t any easily available dolls that size.  I even googled it and they sell doll clothes patterns, but that doesn’t really do us any good.  And I’m not sewing tiny clothes for you, man.  There’s a limit.”  Dean can’t even give him a hard time about this.  There really is a limit, and it comes somewhere before that.  Plus, Sam is shit at sewing.  Dean’s the one who always has to fix his busted hems and rips (he got good at it while they were growing up.  There was never enough money for new clothes when they needed them, so Dean got good at keeping his hand-me-downs in decent shape for Sam).  Shaking out of the memories, Dean turns his attention back to Sam.  “The toy store lady pointed me toward a 6-inch GI Joe figure, which was about as close as I could get size-wise.  So…I know they’re not ideal, but…” Sam carefully sets down a set of camos that look just a little too big for Dean.

“Hey, no, these are great!” He tells Sam sincerely.  It could’ve been a hell of a lot worse than camos.  He figures he’s lucky it’s not a tiny Elsa dress or something (panties are one thing; a bright pink house is one thing; Disney princess dresses are quite another.  Every man has his limits.), this is actually a relief.  “I can roll up the sleeves and the pant legs and I still have my belt if I need to cinch the waist a little.”

“We can also wash your clothes in the sink,” Sam adds, “so this is really just a back-up.  Hopefully we’ll have you back to normal size fast enough that we don’t need to expand on your wardrobe.  But actually, there is one more thing.”  Shit.  Is this where he breaks out the Elsa dress after all?  Because Dean’s pretty sure if he does, Cas is going to somehow manage to talk him into putting the fucking thing on, and goddammit, he may be secure in his masculinity but _there’s a line._

“I figured you needed pajamas, and while I was at the daycare—“ _don’t laugh don’t laugh don’t laugh_ “—I spotted this little figure that looked just a little smaller than you.  I’m not sure if they’ll fit, and the pants are definitely gonna be too short, but…”  He trails off, carefully setting down a tiny pair of sweatpants and a long-sleeved tee.  The shirt’s got an orange mark on it that looks like crayon and the sweatpants look a touch threadbare, but when Dean abandons the remnants of his meal to come check them out, he discovers that they’re incredibly soft.  Sam’s right, they’re definitely gonna be a little too short, but just by eyeballing them he thinks the sweatpants look like they’ll fit pretty well around the waist.

“I’m totally putting these on right now, Sam,” Dean says, because he’s not sure he knows any better way to convince Sam that he did great on the clothing front.  And also because he needs to hide in the house for a second so he can snicker about Sam jacking a doll from the daycare along with the house.  There have to be a couple of traumatized toddlers left in his wake—it’s a good thing they make shitty subjects for sketch artists.

Dean barricades himself inside the living room to change, discarding his t-shirt but keeping his boxers on.  Sure enough, the sweatpants fit quite well around the middle—but come up to mid-calf.  Whatever.  The long-sleeved tee is incredibly soft and also fits well, even if the sleeves are more like three-quarter length on him.  He emerges from the house, grinning at Sam.  “See?  A little short, but otherwise perfect.”

Sam smiles down at him, politely refraining from laughing at Dean’s capri-length sweatpants.  “Not so bad.  I ordered a couple of other things online just in case, but hopefully by the time they get here you won’t need them and we can donate them to the daycare as an apology when we return the house.”

“Good plan,” Dean compliments, narrowly refraining from asking whether he ordered an Elsa dress.  He doesn’t want to give the kid any ideas, after all.

“Okay, if that does it for you for the moment, I’m gonna go see about my own dinner—“

“Sam,” Cas suddenly interrupts, “what is that on your hand?”

Sam glances down at it and Dean suddenly spots what Cas is referring to—a nasty blister on the side of one palm. “Oh, it’s no biggie, Cas,” Sam says, waving it off, “I burned myself a little making the burger for Dean.  Harder than you think to heat something so little.”

“Well, bring it here so I can take care of it for you,” Cas tells him sternly.

“No, Cas, it’s not a big deal,” Sam says, shaking his head.  He looks slightly uncomfortable, and after a moment of consideration, Dean suspects he knows why.  He’s not getting involved though, he’s just going to wait and see how this plays out.

“Sam,” Cas says, voice impatient, “we have discussed this.  There is no need to martyr yourself when there is easily accessible healing available to you.  Now bring it here.”

“Cas, it’s really not necess—“ Sam tries one more time, but even miniscule, Cas can be pretty damn intimidating.

 _“Samuel,”_ he squeaks warningly, and Sam sighs.

“Okay, fine,” he caves, carefully bringing his hand down in front of Cas.  Cas reaches out a tiny hand, carefully sets it atop the blister, closes his eyes, and focuses.

Nothing happens.

At least, not from Dean’s perspective.  The blister remains just as angry-looking as ever.  Cas blinks his eyes open, stares at the blister for a moment, then frowns and closes his eyes again, face setting into lines of concentration.

Nothing happens.

When Cas opens his eyes yet again, there’s a look of dawning horror on his face.  Sam opens his mouth to speak, but Cas holds up a tiny hand to halt him.  Sam subsides into silence as Cas, scowling, sets _both_ hands on the blister and squeezes his eyes shut, brows knitting into a solid line of focus.

Nothing happens.

Finally, when Cas opens his eyes for a third time, Sam gently withdraws his hand.  “Cas,” he says, voice soothing, “it’s okay.  Seriously.”

“I…” Cas’s jaw opens and closes as he looks from his own tiny hands up to Sam’s giant, still-blistered hand.  “It…didn’t work,” he says unnecessarily, face flushing with clear embarrassment at his failure to perform.

“I think maybe it hurts a little less?” Sam lies unconvincingly.  Cas glares up at him, not at all fooled (or amused) by the attempt to spare his feelings.  “Look, you’re a lot smaller than normal.  It makes sense that for the moment, maybe your grace has shrunk proportionally.  You were able to heal Dean’s ankle earlier, so you clearly still have your powers.”  He raises a good point, but Cas doesn’t look especially mollified.

“Cas,” Dean finally breaks in, coming over to wrap a consoling arm around the angel, “look, don’t worry about it.  Everybody has…performance issues now and again.  It doesn’t say anything about your angelic prowess, okay?”

“Dean,” Cas grates out, apparently not especially comforted, “please step back.  I am about to teleport.”

Dean obligingly steps back, despite the sinking feeling in his stomach that tells him this is a bad idea.  “Cas, maybe you should just hold off on that,” he tries, but Cas is undaunted.

“I will not go far,” he says, “only to the library and back.”  There’s a look of such fierce determination on his face that Dean can’t bring himself to argue more, even if he’s pretty sure this isn’t gonna be much more successful than the healing.

Cas closes his eyes, focusing hard, and vanishes.  Dean exchanges a look of surprise with Sam.  Wow, so maybe it did—

“Father _damn it!”_ A tiny squeak sounds from across the room, about three quarters of the way to the doorway.  Okay, so Cas can still teleport, but distance appears to be a bit of an issue.

“Hey!” Dean breaks in hastily, “it totally worked!  You teleported!”

“Dean Michael,” Cas growls, “do not patronize me.”

Dean lifts both hands in surrender as Sam speaks up.  “Look, Cas, I think your powers of movement have just been shrunk proportionally too.  You’re about fifteen times smaller, so maybe you need to attempt to move fifteen times further than you really want to?  I’d…be careful though.  It might be kind of imprecise.”

Cas’s face is downright thunderous as he stalks back across the room toward Dean and Sam.  Sam, knowing what’s good for him, doesn’t offer to help.  By the time Cas is halfway back, there’s a speculative look in his eye that worries Dean a little. “Cas,” he tries once more, “babe, maybe enough with the experiments for today?  It’s been a really long day, I’d love to just kick back and do some relaxing with you—“

“In a moment, Dean,” Cas says, a little out of breath from hurrying as he finishes his trek.  “First, please cover your ears.  You as well, Sam.  I will be using my true voice.”

Dean knows better than to try arguing further when Cas has that determined look on his face.  Exchanging an imperceptible shrug with Sam, he smashes both hands over his ears.  Sam does the same.

Cas squares his shoulders and opens his mouth.  Even through the cover of his hands, Dean feels the vibrations and winces a little.  Sam, however, looks completely untouched.  The ceramic saucer just to one side shudders very slightly.  A tiny crack appears on one side of it.

In his usual vessel, under ordinary circumstances, Dean has seen Cas blow out every lightbulb and every breakable item in an entire building—even one as big as the bunker.  This?  This was clearly not the outcome Cas was hoping for, even if it’s probably a good thing for their quality of life (it would be hellish to have to replace all the lightbulbs and glassware in the entire place). 

Finally, Cas droops, clearly done, and Sam and Dean both drop their hands to their sides.

“Cas, seriously, it’s okay,” Dean tries, but the angel just shakes his head.  With a stony nod to Sam, Cas retires into the house in total disgust.

Dean is left staring up at his brother, grimacing a little.  Sam rubs a hand across his mouth, clearly kind of amused and also feeling bad about it.  Frowning censoriously at Sam, Dean motions back toward the house.  “I, uh, think I’d better go…”

“Yeah, good call,” Sam agrees, more than happy to leave the comforting to Dean.  “I’ll check in on you guys in a couple hours.  Just, uh, hang your camos on the doorknob if you…want to be left alone, okay?”

Dean considers this, then grins, “good call.  Harkening back to the ol’ college days, eh?”

Sam shrugs, grinning back, then heads for the door, pausing just before he leaves.  “Oh, and Dean?”  Dean waits, not bothering to speak since he knows Sam wouldn’t understand him from the doorway anyway.  “The toilet in the bathroom in there is removable.  Just so you know.  Later!”  Wait, what?  That’s a weird fucking thing to say.  Dean’s completely mystified, but he doesn’t have time to worry about it now.  An incredibly downtrodden Cas sulkily awaits.  He sketches a wave of acknowledgement and farewell to Sam, then squares his shoulders and heads inside.

There’s no sign of Cas in the entranceway, nor the living room when Dean checks in there.  “Cas?” He calls tentatively, “c’mon, it’s okay.  You were still able to heal me, remember?”

Nothing.

He heads for the kitchen next, figuring he’ll do a sweep of the house same as he would if this were a case—minus the weaponry, obviously.  The kitchen is deserted, as is the rest of the first floor, so Dean heads for the stairs, hoping Cas didn’t sneak out the back door and head off who knows where to sulk.  If he wandered off without warning anybody ahead of time, Dean is gonna throw the world’s biggest shitfit at him for hypocrisy—after all, the reason Dean can still feel the stretched skin on his ass throbbing with each movement is because he wandered off without warning.

There’s no sign of Cas in the nursery from hell, which is a relief since even without The Shining doll he plans to spend as little time as possible in there.  The only room left is the bedroom, so Dean heads there next, already getting a little preemptively annoyed at the possibility that the angel isn’t in there and has wandered off to parts unknown.

As it turns out, his irritation is premature.

Dean has just cleared the bedroom door when a strong hand seizes his wrist, neatly swinging him around.  He just barely manages to get his free hand up in front of him to cushion himself as he is slammed face-first into the wall.  The hand on his wrist twists, neatly pinning his arm up behind his back, plastering him even more closely against the wall as a solid body presses against him from behind.  Dean gasps at the firm pressure against his ass, bringing the pain back to life even through several layers of clothing. Heart pounding wildly (despite the fact that he knows perfectly well who his assailant is—after all, there’s only one other five-inch-tall humanoid in the bunker, and Cas’s familiar scent is all around him), he is opening his mouth to speak when lips brush his ear.

“If you have any doubts,” Cas hisses, “as to my so-called ‘angelic prowess,’ I am quite certain I can put those to rest.”

Oh.  Fair enough.  Cas has opted to vent his feelings about his performance issues by demonstrating that his performance in other arenas is entirely undamaged.  Dean guesses he can see how that makes sense, and he’s certainly not going to say no to an evening of wild sex.  They were probably headed for this either way (it’s maybe kind of twisted, but once the punishment itself has been resolved, both of them tend to have…strong reactions to the aftermath) and Dean’s down to help Cas reassure himself that he’s every bit as much Dean’s dominant, badass lover as ever.

“N—no,” Dean squeaks, voice a little higher than even its normal chipmunk level, “no doubts, I—“

“Dean,” Cas’s growl is low (or as low as it can get, considering) and very, very dangerous.

“Yessir?” Dean breathes, knowing way better than to leave off the honorific.

“Shut.  Up.” The angel speaks with precision.  Dean snaps his mouth shut so hard he actually hears his teeth click.  Cas hums softly in his ear, wordless approval at how quickly Dean has gotten with the program.  Despite his ready obedience, it becomes clear extraordinarily quickly that Cas has no intention of going easy on him when the angel snakes his free hand down, seizes a handful of Dean’s incredibly tender ass, and _squeezes._

Dean is unable to bite back the whimper that denotes the unique mingling of pain and _hell yes_ that only Cas seems to be able to produce.  The angel’s lips moving against his ear send a shudder down Dean’s spine that is in no way mitigated by his words.

“Had you been a good boy for me earlier,” comes the low whisper, “this might be an entirely different encounter—but then, I know your secret.”  Something about the dark satisfaction in that voice has Dean squirming a little, despite the fact that he knows there’s no way in hell he’s getting away (and he doesn’t really want to, anyhow).  Cas simply tightens his fingers around Dean’s wrist, then uses his free hand to grab the other wrist, pinning it beside Dean’s head.  He uses his entire body to keep Dean immobile, the warm, strong weight of him steady and welcome against his back.  “I know,” Cas goes on, “that despite your whimpers, despite your squirming, you _like_ how it feels when I’m buried in your well-punished ass.  You love when I make it hurt just right.  And you know that _nobody_ can make you feel the way I do.”

Ordinarily that last part wouldn’t even need to be said, it’s so patently obvious to both of them (not to mention pretty much everyone who’s ever seen them together, but that’s a whole other story).  Dean figures Cas is still consoling himself about his…issues outside the house earlier.  Before Dean can decide whether he should break the order to be silent in order to reassure Cas that he is indeed the only one who can do these things to Dean, the pressure of the angel’s body against his lifts.  Cas draws back just far enough, releasing the wrist he has pinned against the wall.  Before Dean can decide whether to put up a little fight or not (it’s all for show, of course, but sometimes it’s fun to be overpowered), that hand has seized on the scruff of his neck and Cas is using that grip plus the one on his wrist to pull him away from the wall.  He pivots Dean around, walking him forward until his thighs hit the edge of the bed.  It takes minimal pressure, applied perfectly, to force Dean to bend over, briefly burying his face in the soft covers before he turns his head.

Cas releases Dean’s wrist, letting him shake it out for a second, but maintains the powerful hold on the back of his neck, not even risking Dean breaking free and making a run for it.  “Hands,” the angel snaps suddenly, the order actually making Dean jump a little in the quiet of the room, “behind your back.”

Dean hesitates, fingers of one hand tightening in the sheets as the other curls in on itself.  To fight or to surrender?  He’s about to break out that age-old favorite (are there any words in the English language more fun than ‘make me’?) when Cas suddenly presses a single finger into Dean’s ass cheek.  _Hard._ “You remember what happens to bad boys,” Cas inquires smoothly, “don’t you, Dean?  I will not tell you again.”

Dean’s cock, already hard enough that he’s a little worried about splitting the threadbare sweatpants apart, jerks sharply.  Jesus Christ, the things Cas can do to him with only a few words. 

Message received, he puts his hands behind his back.  Cas releases Dean’s neck and spare seconds later, a smooth but strong length of something rope-like is winding around his wrists.  Dean blinks a few times, mystified, craning his neck over his shoulder to try to see what Cas is using.  The angel neatly reaches up and presses Dean’s head back down, a wordless order that needs no interpretation.  Dean subsides back onto the bed as Cas’s slightly amused voice rings out.  “Dental floss.  Sam was somewhat less than thrilled with some of my requests, but was kind enough to assemble several items for me.”

Dean actually has to turn his head into the bedclothes to stifle his snort of amusement.  Dental floss?  Yeah, he was right, his boyfriend is actually the MacGyver of BDSM supplies.

He sobers pretty damn quick when Cas’s hands abandon his wrists, now tied snugly together behind him, in order to snag the waistband of both sweatpants and boxers.  With one hard jerk, both layers are hanging loosely around his ankles, and the angel doesn’t even bother to pull them all the way off.  He leaves Dean’s shirt as it is, apparently unconcerned with stripping him more than absolutely necessary to take what he wants.  He knows damn well what that does to Dean.

In fact, he apparently has use for the shirt, because a single hand grasps the back of it, using the grasp to jerk Dean upright.  He staggers a little, made unsteady by the pants tangled around his ankles (and possibly by the amount of blood flow currently being diverted far south of vestibular system), but Cas easily holds him upright just long enough to reach under the bed (wait, what?) and pull out…is that…?

Yeah, it is.  Dean’s eyes latch on the tissue, trying to figure out just what the hell it’s here for, but the question is answered a second later as Cas throws the tissue down over the surface of the bed.  Huh, that’s actually pretty fucking smart.  Dean presumes there aren’t any spare sheets; hell, the fact that the bed has sheets and covers at all is a small miracle _(heh…small)._  “Do you know what this is for, Dean?” Cas inquires.  Dean can’t quite tell whether the question’s meant to be rhetorical, so he goes ahead and answers either way.

“Yessir, it—“

“This is to protect the bedclothes,” apparently, it was rhetorical, because the angel doesn’t even bother to let him finish.  “Because you, my sore-bottomed one, are going to come untouched while I am buried in your naughty backside.”  Oh God, if he keeps talking like that Dean’s going to come untouched before Cas gets anywhere near his ass.  He groans deeply, head tilting back on his neck as his cock jerks again, trying to focus on the tissue and its purpose to avoid embarrassing himself entirely. 

Protecting the bedclothes is actually a damn good idea.  Dean can’t imagine Sam would be thrilled to have to wash jizz or lube out of them, and…wait a minute.  The thought rattles something loose in Dean’s brain, and before he can pause to decide whether or not it’s a good idea, he’s speaking.  Cas doesn’t wait to hear what he has to say before bending him right back over the side of the bed.  “Wait, wait, hold that thought, you know I’m all for rough, but there’s no way you’re fucking me without lube, and we don’t—“

“We most certainly do,” Cas breaks in tartly, “and you ought to have more faith in me.”

“…how?” Dean demands, regardless of what’s good for him.  He _has_ to know.

“What manner of fool do you take me for?” Cas actually has the nerve to sound bored.  “I bribed your brother to drip some into a thimble.  We have more than enough.”

“Hold up, what did you bribe—“

“You have run out of freebies,” Cas informs him firmly, “and as such I expect to hear nothing out of your mouth that is not a plea, a whimper, or a moan.  Or,” he adds as an afterthought, unnecessarily, “your safeword, if necessary.”  It won’t be necessary, Dean’s sure of it.  Cas knows exactly where his limits are and how to neatly march him along them without pushing him over.  Nevertheless, it’s always available to him if he needs it in sexual situations, despite the fact that he doesn’t have access to one when he’s actually being punished.  It’s kind of a complicated dynamic and it took them a little while to iron out the kinks (pun intended, and Cas practically killed Dean when he used that particular euphemism for the first time), but they’ve got it sorted out now.  “Now,” Cas says, a warning in his tone, “am I understood?”

There is exactly one right answer to this question and pretty much infinite wrong ones.

“Yessir.”  Dean is many things, and some of them aren’t awesome.  What he _isn’t_ is stupid.

“That’s my good boy,” Cas murmurs approvingly, “now prove it by staying right where I put you.”

Those words pretty much melt Dean into a puddle, so the warning is really unnecessary.  He doesn’t think he could move if he was paid to.

It takes his brain a moment to try to translate the sounds he’s hearing, but after a few seconds he sorts out that he’s hearing something scraping along the floor.  Call him crazy, but he guesses it’s probably a thimble.  Remembering how much beer fit in the thimble from earlier, Dean realizes suddenly exactly how much lube they really do have.

Huh.  It might be a really, _really_ long night.

Dean’s suspicion is confirmed for him spare moments later, as one hand settles onto the curve of his ass and pries his cheeks apart, allowing a single slick finger from its mate to unerringly bury itself to the hilt.

A strangled gasp breaks its way out of Dean, his fingers tightening into fists.  He’s not entirely sure whether the intrusion or the pressure of Cas’s hand digging into his strapped (and striped) flesh is more shocking.  The gasp turns to a moan as that single finger withdraws and is immediately joined by another, just as slick and just as ruthless. 

Oh, it’s like _that._

There are days when Cas fingers Dean open slowly and methodically, works him with the kind of patient thoroughness that has him practically screaming for it long before the angel gives in and takes him. 

Today is clearly not one of those days.

The pressure of the hand digging into his ass, keeping his cheeks parted, is _intense._ Dean likes pain, this is not exactly news, but the kind of punishment Cas delivered went well past the threshold at which his enjoyment falls away (and anyway, even when he’s punished less severely than that, something about knowing it’s the real thing, he’s _actually_ in trouble, tends to put pause to the arousal that would make an appearance if a spanking of exactly the same caliber were delivered erotically).  The aftermath is likewise pretty fucking severe, and by the time Cas has worked three fingers into him—which doesn’t take all that long, since he’s clearly having a goal-oriented day—Dean is grinding his teeth together to hold back the sounds that want to escape.

Cas catches on almost immediately, digging his fingers into the flesh a little more deeply as the trio of digits on his other hand jab deliberately against Dean’s prostate. “No, no,” the angel coaxes, “let me hear those pretty sounds.  I want it all.”

He gets it, too, the second those fingers hit his prostate.  Dean lets out a low groan, hips squirming against the bed—although he’s not entirely sure whether he’s trying to escape the painful pleasure or intensify it.

“I wish we had a mirror small enough,” Cas murmurs, “so I could show you exactly how red your ass still is.  Little lines of bruising just starting to appear—such a lovely sight.  You could have spared yourself such a painful punishment had you just behaved; you know I do not enjoy being so hard on you,” Dean can hear the “but” coming a mile away and sure enough, “but oh, I do so enjoy taking advantage of its aftereffects.”

Dean has next to no time to brace himself when the fingers withdraw, leaving his muscles clenching futilely around empty air.  The hand that was digging into his cheek eases up before Cas lightly grazes his fingernails along the tender skin, making Dean’s entire body jerk sharply.  He almost misses the telltale sound of flesh being slicked up in the background, squeezing his eyes shut and setting his jaw in the split second before both of Cas’s hands lock around his hips and jerk him back into the driving cock.

He’s barely stretched enough, and the burn is intense both within and without as the angel’s hips collide mercilessly with his ass.  Cas has no intention of going easy on him, despite the fact that this is going to hurt like hell.  One thrust and Dean is already writhing like a worm on a hook, half trying to move away from the impaling cock and half trying to force himself back onto it.  His body has no idea what it wants, torn between ‘please no hurts please stop’ and ‘oh God yes more harder faster now please now.’

‘Oh God yes’ wins.  It virtually always does.  Despite the pain—which is somewhere between breathtaking and excruciating—Dean has maybe never wanted anything in his life as badly as he wants this.

Cas gives it to him.

He draws back only enough to get the proper leverage before he’s fucking right back into Dean, whose muscles still haven’t adjusted to the intruder enough for the entry to be effortless.  Cas doesn’t care; he forces his way in regardless, more than slick enough that he won’t actually do any real damage.

Dean whimpers desperately, head thrashing against the tissue, back arching as his own hips work, seeking friction that won’t come.  Cas already told him what is expected; he’ll come untouched or not at all.

Dean’s not worried.  He was practically on the verge of orgasm before Cas even touched him.  It won’t be hard to achieve with the angel fucking him like a goddamn stallion.

He gets the sense that this is not going to be a long ride.  Cas is making a point (angelic _prowess,_ was it?), and no doubt there will be more than enough time later for him to take more leisurely pleasure out of Dean’s sore backside.  For now, he goes ahead and drives his point home.  Hard.

The slap of flesh on flesh as Cas’s hips smack against Dean’s ass reverberates around the room, combining with the squelch of lube from his pistoning cock.  Dean thinks those sounds alone could get him off, even without any actual contact, and he’s got more contact than he knows what to do with.  He’s not sure when it happened, but he realizes that there’s another sound in the room—his own whimpered words, frequently breaking off on moans or gasps.  _“Yes fuck yes please please hurts please yes fuckfuckfuck.”_ It’s not especially coherent, but Cas never seems to mind that—indeed, he appears to delight in pushing Dean past the point of reason.

The pain is getting more intense with each thrust, and Dean can see the threshold past which it will transform back into just plain old pain rather than this delicious sharp-edged pleasure—but he’s not there yet.

Cas must sense the approaching limit because he moves just slightly, and the small shift in angle of the next thrust does it.  His cock rubs firmly over Dean’s prostate and Dean explodes, his yell rising enough in pitch that it can only properly be termed a squeal.  He’ll worry about that later; for the moment his entire focus is on the sharp waves of pleasure crashing through him as his cock spills onto the tissue placed beneath him for just this very purpose.

Cas follows him over the precipice after only another three or four hard thrusts, something Dean will take a moment to be grateful for once he’s caught his breath and remembered his own name.

The angel fucks him through both of their orgasms, thrusts slowing to a stop just before the point at which the pressure would’ve become unbearable.  He withdraws much more carefully than he entered, dislodging himself from Dean as gently as possible.  Dean has gone entirely limp against the bed, dragging in long, gasping breaths as he starts to come down.  A few seconds later, the dental floss around his wrists is released, allowing his arms to fall to his sides.  Cas clambers up onto the bed, then grabs Dean under both arms and neatly drags him up until he’s stretched out atop the tissue (and no longer on the sticky spot on which he came, thankfully).  Dean’s sweatpants and boxers drop to the floor as he’s drawn up onto the soft mattress, but he can’t be bothered to worry about them.

All his focus is on the warm arms wrapping around him, drawing him close to a firm chest.  He tips his head up a little, blindly seeking, and Cas immediately intuits what he’s looking for and gives it to him, pressing their lips together in a soft but still searing kiss.

“Message received,” Dean mumbles against his lips after a moment, “angelic prowess, fully intact.  No arguments here.”

He can feel Cas’s lips curve up into a smile against his own.  “Yes, well,” the angel observes, “always happy to provide a demonstration.”

Dean squirms a little, settling himself more comfortably.  He’s going to be sticky with the remnants of his own orgasm later, but for the moment he doesn’t especially care.  “We c’n…move the tissue,” he mumbles, not particularly caring on his own behalf but figuring Cas might be more comfortable on the coverlet.

“Best not,” Cas murmurs, brushing his lips fondly against Dean’s forehead.  “I am going to be dripping out of your ass for some time to come, and we would not want to stain the bedspread, would we?”  Jesus Christ.  Dean’s cock twitches in renewed interest, despite the fact that the rest of him definitely needs a rest.  “Moreover,” Cas continues, “I am hardly done with you yet.”

Dean’s not entirely sure whether that’s a threat or a promise.

Either way, he’s not arguing.

“Oh, hey,” Dean says after a moment of comfortable silence, suddenly remembering something that seems important, “before we get up to anything else, you better go hang my camos on the door.”

Cas doesn’t ask.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter-specific tags and warnings: D/s, rough sex, light bondage (with dental floss, no less), manhandling, aftermath of severe corporal punishment, pain play (did I forget anything? Let me know if I forgot anything).
> 
> AUTHOR'S NOTE:
> 
> Okay, first of all...I have to apologize for the chapter title. I ABSOLUTELY COULD NOT RESIST. It was right there. I had to go for it.
> 
> (Y'all know I'm not actually sorry, right?)
> 
> Now that that's out of the way...WE MADE IT! The long-awaited smut! I certainly hope it was worth the wait. In a quest to make sure I didn't short y'all what you were due after you'd patiently waited for so long, this is an extra-long chapter. Enjoy! You earned it! Poor Cas also needed an opportunity to thoroughly reclaim his pride, given his...performance issues (and just allow me to say that you cannot imagine how much fun it was to play with that particular metaphor).
> 
> I hope you enjoyed reading this as much as I did writing it. Tell me what you thought! You'll find the comments down there. *points*
> 
> See you next week, and come find me on [tumblr](http://kreweofimp.tumblr.com) if you haven't already!


	7. Microbiology

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which when you gotta go, you gotta go, and Cas always seems to know just what Dean needs, even when Dean doesn't.
> 
> Chapter-specific tags at the end of the chapter, as always

Warm, sated, and with the reignited pain in his backside settling back into that familiar, somehow delicious throb, Dean is already half asleep by the time Cas gets back upstairs.  “Mission accomplished?” He mumbles, half-cracking one eye open as the mattress shifts with Cas’s returning weight.

“Indeed,” Cas tells him, edging over and gathering Dean in against his now bare chest (Dean guesses muzzily that he must’ve taken the opportunity when he got up to strip off his pants and button-down, leaving him in only boxers).  Dean is only too happy to burrow his head into the crook of the angel’s neck.

“Think ‘m…gonna fall asleep again,” Dean informs Cas, wanting to keep him in the loop.

“So I had gathered,” Cas tells him gravely, then starts to run his fingers through the hair at the base of Dean’s skull.  “Rest awhile, love.”

Well, if he insists...

~*~

The disruption that awakens Dean no more than an hour later is an internal one, and was probably entirely predictable to everyone but Dean himself.  Certainly, Sam had foreseen it.  In any event, his bladder is shrilly screeching its displeasure with rapidly increasing urgency, bringing him back to full alertness with astonishing speed.

“Fuck,” he hisses as he rolls off of Cas’s chest.  Even on the softness of the bed, his entire body weight settling onto his ass is distinctly less than pleasant.  He goes ahead and slides directly off the bed and onto the floor, his swollen bladder actually eclipsing the renewed burn of his bare butt.  “We have a problem,” he continues, actually shifting from foot to foot as he turns to face Cas. There is really no overstating the urgency of this situation.

“I was wondering when that would happen.  You must be quite dehydrated to have gone so long without urinating,” Cas observes clinically.

“I sure as fuck don’t feel dehydrated right now,” Dean grimaces, fighting the urge to actually clutch his groin to prevent the kind of accident he hasn’t had in well over three decades (well, except for that one time he got hit by a car.  He doesn’t remember it of course, but Sam assures him that he did, in fact, pee himself).

“Dean,” Cas says patiently, maintaining a straight face despite the sheen of amusement Dean can see in his eyes, “this is not a problem.  Have you forgotten Sam’s final words to you before he departed?”

Dean stares at him blankly.  What, hanging the camo on the door?  Yeah, it was a good call, but Dean has no intentions of going and peeing on the camos _or_ the door, and that’s the—oh.  That wasn’t actually the _last_ thing Sam had said.  It didn’t make sense to Dean at the time, but suddenly the significance of the toilet’s removability hits him.

“Fuck me,” he groans, not at all pleased by the thought of Sam cleaning out Dean’s tiny toilet.  Come to that, Sam can’t be especially thrilled about it either, despite how good-naturedly he had imparted the information to Dean.  Cas simply watches him in silence, trusting in Dean’s bladder to persuade him far more efficiently than any words would be likely to.

He’s not wrong.

If Dean wasn’t so desperate, he might have stood on principle and refused to pee in the pint-sized toilet, unwilling to accept the idea of his brother using, what, a spare toothbrush to scrub out Dean’s leavings in the bathroom sink?  As it is, it’s either the toilet or the floor at this point.  With a grunt of displeasure, he flees toward the small attached bathroom, letting himself in and slamming the door behind him.  It’s not like Cas has never seen him pee, but there’s not even any water in this toilet and—oh.  Huh.

As it turns out, there _is_ water in this toilet.  Sam must have dribbled in several drops when he installed the thing.  And he _did_ install it, Dean can tell.  There’s a small ridge of pink plastic where the original bathroom fixture must have been removed using a switchblade or something, and a perfect miniature ceramic replica of a toilet, complete with wooden seat and lid, rests in its place.  Jesus, how the hell is it possible that a small-town toy store had these kind of elaborate dollhouse fixtures?  The bed alone is incredible, and now the bathroom as well?

Contemplation of Sam’s fortuitous finds will have to wait a little longer, though, because Dean’s body has decided that it’s done waiting.  He hastily lifts the seat up, then actually groans in relief as his bladder empties.  That was a long damn time in coming, particularly considering the sizable beer Dean drank with his dinner.  Honestly, Cas is right, he’s probably kind of dehydrated—but there’s a solution for that, too.  When Dean glances over at the sink, he finds that the one that came with the dollhouse has likewise been removed (there’s that same little ridge of pink plastic where it used to be) and replaced by a ceramic one that matches the toilet.   There’s water in the sink, plus another thimble of it on the floor.  Damn, Sam was thorough as fuck.  Dean makes yet another mental note that he owes the kid bigtime.

When he turns around, Dean finally spots the final piece of the puzzle—a perfect little ceramic bathtub that looks like it’s probably just about the right length for him.  It’s the only fixture in the bathroom that’s actually empty of water at the moment, and while Dean appreciates the thoroughness of its inclusion, he figures he’ll do just fine showering under one of the bathroom sinks, and it’ll be less of a pain in the ass for Sam.  For the moment, though, that can wait.  He crosses the room to the sink, discovering that the water in there is actually a little soapy.  Did Sam think of literally _everything?_  

As it turns out, the answer is no, because there’s nothing in there to serve as a towel.  Shrugging, Dean lets his hands drip-dry for a moment before he snags the thimble and thirstily drains half of it.  To his relief, there’s no soap in _that_ water (he probably should have thought to check before actually drinking it, but he just woke up like three minutes ago, okay?).

Feeling much relieved, Dean closes the lid of the toilet, grimacing a little as he remembers that his poor, long-suffering biglittle brother is going to have to deal with that situation—and any other ones that arise. 

Dean’s never living this down, is he?  Sam’s forever gonna be able to hold over his head that he cleaned up Dean’s tiny, hamster-sized shit.  Because eventually he’s gonna _have_ to take a shit.  Biology always wins out.  Fuck, this is like the perfect storm of humiliating and disgusting. 

With those pleasant thoughts haunting him, Dean heads back into the bedroom, scowl firmly in place.  Cas, who is now sitting on the bed with his back propped against the wall, raises a brow at him as he slouches his way back toward the bed.  What he really wants to do is sit down and sulk, but the former is a lousy idea for the sake of his battered bottom, and the latter is a lousy idea because Cas has little patience for sulking (he tends to be of the ‘I’ll give you something to sulk about’ camp).

The angel must see on Dean’s face where his thoughts have taken him, though, because rather than offering any dire warnings based solely on the look on Dean’s face—and it wouldn’t be the first time if he did—he smiles gently and pats the bed beside him.

“You are altogether too far away,” he teases, as Dean continues to hover on the other side of the room.

“’m not sitting,” Dean responds, a little grumpily, in response to the bed-patting.

“I did not imagine you would,” Cas says, lips twitching slightly, “but before you descend too deeply into anticipatory ill-temper, indulge me.”

It sounds like a request.

It’s not.

Dean gives a long-suffering sigh, rolling his eyes as he clambers up onto the bed and stretches out on his belly, propping his chin in his hands to look at Cas.  Hopefully the angel missed the eye-rolling, since he tends to feel very strongly that it’s ‘disrespectful.’

No such luck.

Cas’s face has settled into much sterner lines, and he raises a single challenging brow at Dean, the message clear: _do you really want to provoke me right now, when you cannot even sit down on the softness of a bed?_

Well, no.  He doesn’t, really.  Instead of responding, he slides his eyes away, giving in without admitting it.

_“Attitude,”_ Cas warns him in a low voice, then sighs and continues without waiting for a response.  “If I am not much mistaken, your current distress stems from the realization that Sam will have to clean out your facilities, yes?”

“Yeah,” Dean confirms, the scowl etching itself on his face anew, “it’s fucking humiliating.  And gross.  And he’s never gonna let me live it down.  This kind of ammunition lasts forever.”

“Tell me,” Cas says, as if he didn’t hear a word Dean just said, “if I am wrong, but I have been led to understand multiple times that when Sam was small, you were responsible for meeting many of his needs.”

“You’re not wrong,” Dean says, brows knitting up as he tries to decide whether to be curious about where Cas is going with this or annoyed at him for changing the subject. “At first Dad was really broken up over Mom, and sometimes he drank too—anyway.  You’re not wrong,” he concurs, unwilling to get into it in more detail.

“And infants and toddlers need a great deal of attention and care, yes?”  Okay, this is just silly.  Cas already knows the answer to that.  He’s cared for a baby or two in his time, after all.

“Yeah, obviously, you know that.  Dude, what’s your point?” Dean demands, tone somewhat less than patient despite the risk.

Rather than responding to the tone—or responding at all, verbally, Cas merely stares at him without blinking.  Dean stares back, annoyance increasing, biting back the urge to say something that would definitely be ill-advised in the extreme.

After a few moments of silence, Cas raises both brows, as though inquiring exactly how obtuse Dean can be.  And that’s it.  That is absolutely _it._ Dean opens his mouth, ready to go off, and damn the consequences…

…and then it clicks.  Finally.

“Oh my God,” he exclaims, “I changed his fucking diapers!  I changed _hundreds_ of his diapers.  Maybe _thousands,_ since he was such a stubborn asshole when it came to potty training—which I _also_ did.”

“There it is,” Cas says, a small smile settling on his face.  “I knew you would get there eventually.”

“Took me long enough,” Dean grumbles, his irritation now much-decreased and turned inward.

“You have had a long and trying day,” Cas reiterates, shrugging.  Despite what a rigid disciplinarian he tends to be, he also gives Dean the benefit of the doubt a lot more than Dean gives himself. 

“If he tries to give me a hard time, I can just remind him that I cleaned actual shit off his actual ass, and it was a lot bigger in proportion to me than anything he’s gonna be cleaning up,” Dean observes gleefully.

“I do not imagine he is likely to be petty about this,” Cas says, “that sounds more like—“

“—something I would do, yeah,” Dean has to concede.

Cas settles for inclining his head slightly before leveling an assessing gaze on Dean.  The intentness of it might be disconcerting if Dean wasn’t so used to what a close eye Cas keeps on him, in both the literal and figurative senses.  “Are you still sleepy?” Cas inquires solicitously.  “Would you like to rest some more?”

“Nah, not at the moment.  I’m awake,” Dean says, swiveling his head toward the small sitting area across the room to frown at the little plastic mock-TV in the corner, “Wish the television worked, but—“

“Unnecessary,” Cas interrupts smoothly, and when Dean turns his head back toward the angel, he finds Cas methodically stripping his boxers off, “I thought I mentioned that I was not yet finished with you?”

“You did,” Dean says, a familiar squirming heat coming to life in his groin, “but I thought—“

“That because you fell asleep, I had changed my mind?  Surely you know me better than that.  You needed rest, quite understandably, and I would hardly expect you to overtax yourself after what you have been through today, but—“

“Now I’m all rested up?” Dean finishes, unsure whether to grin or edge toward the opposite side of the bed.  It’s not that he isn’t interested—he most definitely is—but his ass is still quite tender from the combined effects of his punishment and the near-brutal fuck of earlier this evening.  “Listen, Cas, I—“

“Am quite sore, I imagine,” Cas finishes for him, and Dean takes a second to be amused at how infrequently either one of them needs to finish a sentence.  They probably could’ve had this entire conversation just with their eyebrows at this point, such is the ease of long familiarity. “I am not a barbarian, Dean, I am capable of being gentle.  On your knees, if you please, head down.”

“Don’t you think—“

“No, I do not,” Cas says, brow lifting, “Unless you wish to invoke your safeword.  Do you wish to you invoke your safeword?”

Dean doesn’t even need to pause and think about that.

“No,” he says, voice caught between ‘screw you’ and ‘okay fine convince me.’

“In that case, on your knees.  Ass in the air, head down.  I will not ask again.”

Dean gets on his knees, setting his forehead onto the tissue that covers the bedspread, leaving his ass uppermost.  Whatever, he’s easily convinced, okay?

The tissue rustles softly as Cas shifts around behind him, one hand settling lightly on his flank, smoothing over the skin there as if gentling a restless horse.  Dean relaxes into the contact readily, forever amazed by how easily Cas can soothe him with only a word or a touch.

“You know that using your safeword does not in any way diminish you,” Cas says quietly, a reminder that he covers quite often, given Dean’s tendency early in their relationship to refuse to assert his limits.  It’s been quite some time since that’s actually been an issue, but Cas is meticulous regardless.

“I know. ‘M fine.  I’d use it if I needed to, but I don’t.  Really, Cas.”

“Very well.  What did you call me?” And just like that, Cas slides easily back into perfect control of both Dean and the situation.

“I—Sir.  I called you Sir, Sir.”

“Mmm, that is not what it sounded like to me, but for the sake of your ass—which is still a rather lovely shade of pink, incidentally, a color that is only enhanced by the purple accents,” sure enough, bruising is starting to rise apparently, “we will let this one slide.  What do you say?”

“Thank you, Sir,” Dean says instantly, “for your lenience.”

“Very good.  What else do you say?”

“Please fuck me, Sir.”

“Tempting,” Cas says, skating fingertips across the swell of Dean’s ass and causing a line of nerve endings to jangle loudly back to life, “And should I use your ass or your mouth, boy?”

It’s actually kind of impressive, how effortlessly he manages to check whether Dean’s ass really is too tender to allow for even gentle sex.  Without pausing or pulling out of the scene, he’s giving Dean an easy out that doesn’t require use of his safeword.

“That’s not for me to decide, Sir,” Dean says, spreading his legs just a little and settling himself more solidly on the bed.  Just like that, he is able to tell Cas that he’s fine for whichever.

“Good boy,” Cas says. “It’s a difficult decision, I must say, but as I cannot currently plug you to keep what I give you inside,” huh, that’s actually a good point.  Most of their dildos and plugs are probably more than half their current size.  Not a whole lot of use to them, “I will just have to ensure that I fill you up again regularly.”

That probably shouldn’t be as hot as it is, but whatever.  Dean’s at peace with his kinkiness at this point, and doesn’t feel even a little self-conscious at the whimper those words draw out of him.  “Yes, Sir,” he manages, a little breathily, knowing Cas expects a response.

“You know,” Cas says thoughtfully, “I believe I would like to take my time with you, and as lovely as you look in this particular position, it does not lend itself to stamina.  Stretch out on your stomach, if you please.”

Oh, hell yeah.  Dean generally loves it when Cas puts him on his knees, ass in the air, head down, but today really _has_ been a long one, and all of his muscles are pretty sore at this point.  Sliding his knees out from underneath him, Dean settles onto his stomach, spreading his thighs widely and feeling his hole, still slick with lube and Cas’s previous load, clench a little in anticipation.

No sooner has he obeyed the directive than he hears a familiar slick sound behind him, and a moment later Cas is sliding home, earning a low groan from Dean.  The entry is easy—after all, Cas fucked him open scarcely more than an hour ago—but there’s still and always something so intense about that moment of first entry.  And that’s even before Cas’s sharp hipbones make contact with Dean’s bruised ass.

Despite how little time he wasted in getting here, Cas seems to be in no hurry now that he’s arrived.  He takes a moment to simply appreciate being buried to the hilt in Dean—or at least, that’s what Dean assumes he’s up to, since he’s certainly not moving.  Thankfully, Cas is supporting most of his own weight on his own knees and forearms.  The press of his hips against Dean’s ass is inescapable, yes, but it’s also light enough that the pain it reawakens is titillating rather than overwhelming.

Dean holds his breath in anticipation of the moment when the angel starts to move.  And holds it.  And holds it some more.  Finally he has to exhale sharply as his head starts swimming, and just as he draws in a fresh gasp of oxygen, Cas draws almost entirely out of him, then slides smoothly back in, unhurried.  Then he stills once more. Dean groans, tipping his head down between his shoulders, hips squirming a little against the bed.  He’s not entirely sure whether he’s trying to get some friction on his cock or tempt the angel into actually fucking him rather than whatever this tease is supposed to be.

“So beautiful,” the gravelly voice murmurs above him, Cas’s lips dropping to brush against Dean’s shoulder, “spread out for me.  You open up for me so well, Dean,” he says, shifting to press a kiss against the other shoulder, then grazing his lips up the curve of Dean’s neck.

Oh.  It’s going to be like that.

Sometimes—especially after a particularly demanding or harsh punishment—Cas will do something to Dean that’s less fucking him than it is _worshipping_ him with both body and word.  Dean doesn’t really know any other way to put it.  At first, it made him uncomfortable.  He wasn’t exactly used to being praised (it wasn’t something that happened a whole bunch for much of his life) and he didn’t know how to respond to it, how to accept it.  Honestly, it still causes the squirming sensation to come alive within him, but now he can recognize that there’s as much _need_ in there as discomfort.  Yes, it’s a little unnerving to hear so many words of praise and adoration murmured to him, especially in moments when Cas has him so spread open, completely exposed in more ways than one.  Still, something about it feeds a part of Dean’s soul that went unacknowledged and untended for a very long time, that only really started to come back to life under Castiel’s careful stewardship. 

Nobody knows Dean like Cas does—not even Sam.  Cas reconstructed Dean from bone and withered flesh and dust, pieced his body back together and carefully coaxed his soul back into it.  He has seen every private, secret, closely-guarded space inside of Dean, has laid careful hands on them all.  If he, in all his knowledge, in all his ageless wisdom, believes that Dean is good and worthy and precious—it _has_ to be true, doesn’t it?

He certainly gets a whole lot closer to believing in his own worth in these moments than he’s maybe ever been before.  Much as he fucks up, much guidance and correction as Cas has to provide, the fact that the angel even _stays_ says a lot.  He’s billions of years old.  He’s been around since the very beginning, watched humanity evolve from single-celled life, seen civilizations rise and fall, been alive for the birth and the death of every terrestrial creature that’s ever lived.  And in all that time, Dean is the first human he’s ever laid hands on, not because he needs to or was ordered to (although yes, at first it was that), but because he _wants_ to.

That is…that’s special.  That means something.

Maybe that’s why Dean finds himself melting into the bed, opening himself further to Cas in every way.  He arches his back a little, pressing his ass slightly more firmly back into the angel’s hips, tilting his head into the brush of lips against the nape of his neck.

“So pliant and lovely, the way you submit, every gorgeous line of your body.  You feel so good, Dean.  So soft and warm and willing.  Would that I could spend every moment inside of you.  Would that I could show the entire world that you are mine—that this man, this perfect, righteous creature belongs to me.”

How do you resist words like that?  Dean doesn’t have a satisfactory answer.  He’s certainly never managed to, not really.

His chest thrums with his own contented hum as Cas draws back once more, then slides back in.  This time, though, Cas continues the movements, taking up a slow, gentle rhythm, and although he still feels it acutely when the angel’s hips make contact with his tender ass, it doesn’t even begin to approach the pain threshold they skated along last time.

“I could fill you up every moment of every day and still never get enough, never be close enough to you.  I never tire of touching you, of tasting you,” here he pauses to slide the tip of his tongue, very lightly, along the curve of Dean’s throat, “of hearing your voice, hearing your laugh, hearing the way you whimper as you take every inch of me,” here his cock surges in just a little more firmly, unerringly drawing out the whimper in question, “I have no greater calling than earning that precious laugh, that gorgeous whimper, the way you beg for me, the way you moan when you come for me.  There is no sound I cherish more than your soft breathing in the night as you slumber on my chest.”

Dean isn’t sure which is more intense; the steady, perfect slide of Cas in and out of his slick hole, or the softly spoken words, as heartfelt and reverent as a prayer.  Hell, maybe they are a prayer.  Maybe this is what it sounds like when this angel— _Dean’s_ angel—prays.  All Dean knows is that in these moments, what they’re doing doesn’t feel dirty or forbidden or profane.

It feels sacred.  It feels—he’s probably going to hell for this, but whatever—it feels _holy._ It feels like something that is meant to be, that must be, that should be.

Dean’s not sure when it started, but he finds that in the pauses between Castiel’s words, his own voice is making itself known, the whisper his own prayer, the only one he’s ever needed, the only one he’s ever meant.

“ _Loveyouneedyouwantyou_ love you need you want you, please please please, Cas, please, love you,” there’s a desperate sincerity to his words, the outward manifestation of how deeply they are felt.  He’s begging, but he couldn’t say what he’s begging for, just that whatever it is, Cas will give it to him.  Cas knows what he needs even when he can’t articulate it or just plain isn’t sure.

“Yes, love, yes, I’ve got you,” the angel murmurs, lips against his ear, his pace speeding just slightly, just enough for the friction to finally _be_ enough, “my beautiful boy, my love.  Come for me, baby.”

Dean hadn’t realized that he was on the verge of orgasm, at least as wrapped up in Cas’s voice as the wet slide of his cock, but the moment he hears those words, more a coax than a command, he is obeying.  The moan Cas so loves spills over his lips as he throws his head back against Cas’s shoulder.  Dean’s cock pulses, spilling into the tissue as his ass tightens convulsively around the length impaling him.

Whether it’s the sounds the angel wrung from him or the clench of his muscles, Dean can’t say, but Cas is pulled along with him moments later, spilling deep inside Dean, filling him up anew, as promised.

Cas stills within Dean as he comes, remaining buried until Dean’s muscles finally relax around him.  As he starts to draw out, Dean shakes his head, groping his hands back behind him.  One seizes on Cas’s shoulder, the other on his arm.  He tugs, trying to draw the angel back down to him, wanting nothing more than to feel that warm, firm body blanketing his.

“No,” he murmurs, not at all surprised to find his cheeks wet and his voice a little thick with tears, “no, stay, please, stay.”

“Oh, baby, no, it will hurt, you are so bruis—“

“Don’t care.  Stay, please, need you.”

A moment later Dean whimpers as a familiar but unexpected heat goes through him, centering itself in his backside.  This is actually new—he can’t remember Cas ever having healed his ass before while actually buried inside him.  He dimly wonders whether it feels a little weird for the angel, too, but a moment later he forgets to care.  The instant the heat fades out, leaving his ass as whole and undamaged as it was this morning, Cas’s body settles atop him, covering Dean, cocooning him.  Dean finally relaxes, boneless and content as he sinks into the mattress, soaking in the warm weight of Cas and everything he represents.

“I am here, love,” Cas murmurs, brushing his lips tenderly against the side of Dean’s face, the back of his head, the nape of his neck, “I’m right here.”

“Stay,” Dean murmurs, feeling himself fading into that dark, content, healing space that is not quite sleep, where the secret spaces inside of him can rest and recharge.

“Always,” Cas vows.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter-specific tags/warnings: the schmoopiest of anal sex, D/s, mild pain kink, major praise kink.
> 
> AUTHOR'S NOTE:
> 
> Poor Dean. Biology really does always win out, huh? I think we should also all take a moment to register what a kick-ass little brother Sam really is.
> 
> So there were some things planned for this chapter--I had an enormous paragraph of storyboarding, but I only got through about three sentences of it, because the boys decided to get unbearably schmoopy. Nevertheless, I think it's kind of nice to see another side to their relationship, especially considering what a good look we've gotten at hardass Cas.
> 
> Of course, the catch-22 of him healing Dean is that now a certain portion of Dean's anatomy is fair game again, when that bratty side makes its frequent appearances. We'll have to see how that plays out.
> 
> In other news, I'm planning on switching my posting days from Friday to Wednesday. In practice, what this means is that if I manage what I'm hoping to do, y'all will have a shorter break between chapters this week. Next chapter should be posted this coming Wednesday, barring any major delays!
> 
> If you haven't already, come find me on [tumblr](http://kreweofimp.tumblr.com)!


	8. Microchips

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which everyone agrees that Dean needs a shower, Sam should probably get an award for improvisation (and does get a new nickname), and Cas makes sure Dean is well-maintained.
> 
> Oh, and Dean finally gets his chips.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Due to time constraints, this chapter is unbetaed. Any and all mistakes and typos are most definitely my fault, and no, I don't mind at all if you point them out. I always want my work to be as polished as possible, even if that means some after-the-fact edits!
> 
> A single chapter-specific warning can be found at the end of the chapter.

There’s something about that kind of drifting.  It’s not sleep, not quite, but it’s also not fully wakefulness.  It rests somewhere in between, in a grey, half-aware place of safety and warmth and fulfillment.  And as much as a good night’s sleep does for the body and the mind, there’s something about this drifting place that recharges Dean in a way nothing else does.

It’s a special place, one that he can’t access on demand.  If he has to pin down a pattern, Dean would say that it seems to come for him most often in the aftermath of a Serious Punishment, when he is drained on more than one level, when he’s had the catharsis of paying for his crimes and being forgiven, when Cas is wrapped around him and Dean is absolutely certain that he is _loved._ Actually, he’s not sure it’s ever happened _without_ Cas in close proximity.  Certainly this wasn’t a space he had ever visited in the time before Cas.  He’s tried to describe it to Cas more than once, without much success, but the angel seems to understand regardless.

The closest thing Dean can think to compare it to is subspace, but it’s not quite that either.  It’s related, he’s sure, but distinct.  There’s something about the fact that what he’s got going with Cas isn’t play, it’s _real._ If he were better at emotions, better at knowing his own internal landscape, he thinks he might have a better sense of it.  As it stands, he’s at peace with not really being able to describe or explain it.  As long as he gets to come here sometimes, the why and how seems less important.

He comes out of it with remarkable speed, when the time comes.  Unlike sleep, unlike subspace, when this space has served its purpose, Dean always seems to return to full awareness (or drop seamlessly into full sleep) quickly.  You’d think it would be jarring, but it’s not. 

He is breathing evenly, and at some point Cas must have carefully climbed off of him, allowed his softened cock to slip out of Dean.  He isn’t gone, though.  He’s fulfilled his promise and _stayed._ Somehow, Dean’s not sure how, Cas has maneuvered them under the covers and has Dean gathered in close to his chest, wrapped in strong arms.  Dean turns his head to brush his lips against that chest.

“Welcome back,” Cas rumbles quietly, leaning down.  Dean tips his chin up to meet the unspoken invitation, pressing their lips together in a languid kiss.  He shifts slightly as their lips break away, then grimaces.

“Holy crap, do I ever need a shower.”

“When Sam returns, we will see what can be done about that.”  The fact that Cas doesn’t disagree or tell Dean he’s fine is further indication that Dean is at least as gross as he thinks he is.  Frankly, considering that he’s been shrunk, covered from head to toe in dust and grime, strapped raw, and fucked within an inch of his life (twice), it’s amazing he doesn’t smell worse than he does.

“I figure the bathroom sink will do me fine, if Sam can manage a thimble of shampoo and body wash.  I wonder how many thimbles we have?  I’ve already counted three.”

“An interesting question.  In any event, I think we must recognize your brother’s ingenuity in finding ways to accommodate your needs on short notice.”

“No joke,” Dean agrees, shaking his head.  “We’re lucky he’s the one who stayed full size, honestly.  He’s definitely the problem-solver in this trio.”

One of the things he loves about Cas is how completely unoffended the angel is at this assessment.  They’ve all got their strengths—and as Cas has hammered into Dean’s head repeatedly, none of them are stupid, not even Dean—but this shit is right up Sam’s alley.  Hell, the kid’s probably having a pretty good time figuring out solutions.

Dean shifts, rolling onto his back and registering again the slight oddness of having his ass back in perfect shape when maybe an hour ago it was a mess of swollen, bruised flesh.  He ought to be used to Cas’s ability to heal pretty much anything at this point, but there’s still something sort of jarring about it.  And come to think of it, Dean hasn’t actually acknowledged it yet, which seems an oversight.

“Since I wasn’t in any shape to say so earlier,” he says, sitting up and grimacing a little at the crusty remnants of his orgasm he can feel drying on his lower belly, “thanks for healing me.  I know it was kind of soon.”

Cas sits up as well, propping himself up on a pillow against the wall and nodding at Dean.  “My job is to ensure that your needs are met, and you needed closeness that I could not provide without ensuring that the damage had been repaired.  You paid the price for your actions when you took what was owed you without complaint or resistance.  While there is certainly some value in experiencing the aftereffects of a punishment, I still hardly think it qualifies as going easy on you.”

Dean shifts, edging down the bed just enough to drape himself across Cas so that they are chest-to-chest, making it easy to steal a kiss.  “How’d I get so lucky,” he demands, sliding one hand lightly across Cas’s stubble, “huh?  At the risk of being a cliché sonofabitch, you’re so good to me.” The angel tilts his head into Dean’s hand, lips curving up slightly.

“I scarcely think you are the only one who benefits from this relationship,” he observes, “nor are you the only one who benefits from being healed, for that matter.  My hands are now untied, in the proverbial sense, when it comes to dealing with any further misbehavior.  I could scarcely attend to them with you in that state.”

Dean has to laugh, even if he does speak up in his own defense. “Hey, I’ve been good since you punished me!”

“Indeed, you have been quite well-behaved for the...six hours since your punishment?  At least sixty percent of which you have spent either asleep or otherwise insensible?  Truly remarkable.  Clearly you should receive some manner of award for your self-restraint.”  Dean’s pretty sure that Cas has managed the tone-of-voice equivalent of ostentatiously rolling one’s eyes.  Instead of being offended, Dean goes with it.

“I couldn’t agree more,” he tells Cas solemnly.  “The Nobel Peace Prize, at the very least.”

This time Cas does roll his eyes, but he’s smiling.  “Have I ever told you that you are incorrigible?”

“At least three times a day,” Dean says cheerfully, “and thank you for noticing.”

Chuckling, Cas shakes his head before throwing back the covers so they can both hunt down their boxers.  Dean uses the opportunity to grab the soiled tissue crumpled at the foot of the bed, using it to get most of the crusted come off his lower stomach.  Ugh, he can’t wait for that shower.

He bends down to grab his boxers off the floor, then squeaks in surprise as Cas lands a playful but very firm swat across the underside of his ass.  “Hey, what was that for?” Dean pouts as he steps into his boxers.

“Consider it multipurpose.  First, a small reminder to continue your record of good behavior, and second, I can hardly be asked to control myself when you are so temptingly wiggling it at me.”

Dean harrumphs, but they’re both grinning, and a moment later he forgets all about the tingling handprint on his backside, when he hears what sounds like rhythmic claps of thunder.  “Oh, Sam’s coming!”  He doesn’t wait for Cas’s response before rushing out of the bedroom and down the stairs, still clad only in boxers.  If Sam gets there before they get the camos of the door, he might turn right back around and walk away, and there’s no way Dean is going another couple hours without a shower.  And a snack, for that matter.  Yeah, he’s hungry again, what of it?

He emerges from the front door just as Sam appears in the doorway.  Knowing his brother can’t hear him from that distance, Dean settles for waving until Sam approaches and crouches down.

“How you doing?” His brother inquires, taking care to keep his volume low.

“Good, but I need a shower _bad.”_

“You are looking a little…grimy.  And I can smell the sex on you from here, which is kind of amazing.”

“Gee, thanks, Sammy.  Aren’t you supposed to be the tactful one?”

“To witnesses and vics, maybe.  Not to _you._ Why waste the energy?”

In a worse mood, Dean might be offended, but he’s feeling pretty content at the moment, so he settles for flipping Sam off good-naturedly.

“Funny.  You’re very funny,” he says in his most sarcastic squeak, and Sam grins down at him.

“So I figure we’ve got a couple choices.  I can go fill up your tub for you—and incidentally, is there anything I need to clean up?”

It’s a damn tactful way of asking if Dean’s needed to use the facilities, and he’s grateful that Sam’s not making a big thing of it.  “Yeah, actually, and good call on adding some water, by the way.  You’re gonna have to explain to me at some point how the hell a small-town toy store had such elaborate doll furniture.”

One of Sam’s eyes twitches slightly.  If Dean were normal-sized, he might not even have noticed it, but as things stand Sam’s face is enormous, so even the slightest shift in expression is hard to miss.  There’s a story here, Dean’s sure of it, and if it’s half as good as the whole robbing-a-daycare thing, he _has_ to hear it.  But first he needs that shower, so he lets it slide for now.

“Anyway,” Dean continues, “I appreciate the offer, but I’m not really feeling a bath.  What do you think about me showering in one of the bathroom sinks?”

“That was gonna be my other suggestion, actually, since they’ve got those grates over the drains that I don’t think you can fall through.  I can put your soap and stuff in a couple thimbles, and—“

“Okay, you gotta fill me in on how the hell we have so many thimbles.”

“The bunker itself had a pretty impressive sewing kit, but I also picked up a big pack of them from the craft store while I was in town.  I figured they’d come in handy.”

“Seriously.  And, uh, thanks for also helping Cas out with the—“

“Don’t mention it,” Sam says hastily, “ _ever.”_

Dean salutes him, lips twitching, figuring that further traumatizing Sam with discussion of lube is a lousy idea when the kid is in complete control of Dean’s bodily needs at the moment.

A small sound from behind him tells Dean that Cas has just emerged from the house.

“I can,” the angel says, “also use my grace to clean you, Dean.  It might be simpler.”

“That’s okay,” Dean says hastily, “I’d actually really like a shower.  Maybe next time, if we’re not back to normal in the next day or two?”  To be fair, he really _does_ want a shower, but that’s not all that’s behind this.  Based on the fact that Cas has healed him twice, Dean doubts that the angel is likely to have any ‘performance issues’ when it comes to cleaning Dean up with his grace, but he figures it’s probably just as well not to strain his powers when they are clearly not up to their usual standards.  The slightly too-long silence from his back tells Dean that Cas knows exactly what he’s about, but he doesn’t make a thing of it.

“Very well,” Cas says neutrally, “I will join you.”

Dean’s pretty sure what Cas means is ‘I’ll come keep an eye on you so you don’t either get yourself into trouble or accidentally drown in the sink,’ but he lets it slide because he never minds showering with Cas.

Sam waits patiently while they both go gather their clothing, then allows them to climb aboard one of his hands for transport to the bathroom.  Dean’s still not crazy about being the equivalent of dozens of feet off the ground and moving this fast, but at least he can actually sit down now without a problem.

Sam leaves them on the edge of one of the bathroom sinks with two thimbles full of shampoo and body wash respectively, a dry washcloth for use as a towel, and the water turned to just the right temperature.  Dean’s actually pretty stoked, since the sink is going to function like one of those awesome rain showers at their current size.

“I’m gonna go take care of clean-up,” Sam tells them tactfully, “and also test out an idea I’ve got.”

“What idea?” Dean chirps curiously, but Sam just smiles and shakes his head.

“You’ll see.  I’ll come back in half an hour or so, so no getting freaky in the shower, okay?  Be kind to my eyes.”

Cas nods solemnly.  “I have no intention of engaging in any carnal activities while we are navigating a new process, Sam.  Your eyes are safe.”

Dean sort of thinks about seeing whether he can get Cas to break his word (he’s pretty damn good at knowing exactly how to tempt the angel into ‘carnal activities’), but as usual, Cas seems to know what he’s about.  The angel is speaking almost as soon as Sam is out of earshot.  “Don’t even think about it, Dean,” he says warningly, “unless you feel it’s been too long since we have established how much more a spanking stings on a wet bottom.”

Yikes.  It definitely hasn’t been too long.  Grimacing, Dean resolves to keep his hands and his gift for teasing to himself.

The bathroom sink makes an awesome shower, as it turns out, and Dean is meticulously careful not to do anything that could be construed as suggestive.  Thirty minutes later, when Sam comes to get them, they are once again on the edge of the bathroom sink, fully dressed.  Dean’s wearing his slightly too-small pajamas and Cas has donned his suit pants and button-down, but left off the coat, tie, and trenchcoat.

“Looks like that worked out pretty well,” Sam says approvingly, reaching down his hand for them to climb aboard.

“It was killer, Sammy, thanks.  Do you think maybe we could stop in the kitchen before we go back to the house?” Apparently, he’s already started think of the pink monstrosity as ‘home’ for however long this lasts, an idea which should probably be more disturbing than it is.

“No need,” Sam tells him, “I already grabbed you some snacks.  They’re in your kitchen.  Another beer, too.”

“I am so glad I didn’t manage to convince Mom and Dad to take you back to the hospital when they brought you home,” Dean declares fervently, and Sam laughs so hard he nearly drops them.

~*~

Dean doesn’t notice how proud of himself Sam looks until they’re back in the bedroom and he’s settled them in front of the house once more.

“Everything’s all cleaned up in there too,” Sam says neutrally, “and I stuck a new little pack of tissues plus a packet of wet wipes in the nursery in case you need them for…anything.”  He’s obviously thinking of sex clean up, and seriously, Sam might be the best sport on the entire planet.  Dean’s gonna make him the world’s best salad when he’s back to full size.

“All of that is awesome.  So’s the snack thing, not to mention the beer.  But what else is up?  You look way too pleased with yourself.”

“Go check out your room,” Sam says in what can only be described as a smug voice.

Dean would take the stairs two at a time if they weren’t just a little too big for him.  Instead he settles for clambering as fast as he possibly can, and when he hits the bedroom door he gapes in amazement.

Dean’s phone, which is nearly as big as he is, sits against the wall opposite the bed.  The fake television has been removed to make room for it, and the loveseat and armchairs now cluster around it in such a way that they still won’t impede view of the thing from the bed.  Sam has even carefully removed one of the window panes and snaked the phone’s charger in through it.  Dean assumes the other side is plugged into the wall, obviating any concerns about the phone running out of battery.

It’s clever as hell, except for one potential, rather large problem.

Dean steps forward to the phone, pushes the home button hard to wake it up (he manages, although it takes some serious oomph), then presses his hand against the screen.

Nothing happens.

Just like he thought, his hand is simply too small to register.  With a sigh, he pokes his head out the window the cord is snaked through.

“It’s a great idea, Sammy, but—“

“I know what you’re gonna say,” Sam says, “and I’ve got a solution.”

Dean raises both brows as Sam reaches into his pocket, then lifts up what he pulled out for Dean’s perusal.  Dean’s just opened his mouth to ask what the hell it is when Sam speaks again.

“You know those gloves you got last winter that are smartphone compatible?  I cut the tip off one of the fingers.  You should be able to use this to control the phone.  It’s bigger than your hands, so it should register.  You might have to put your back into it a little, but I’m pretty sure it’ll work.”

“Holy shit,” Dean says, snatching it from Sam and ducking back inside to test the theory.  In short order he discovers that Sam’s right, the thing works perfectly.  Dropping it into one of the armchairs, he again sticks his head out the window. “You,” he tells his brother, “are a fucking genius.  Now we can watch television!”

“Well, yeah,” Sam says, “and I figured you’d be pretty stoked about that, but it’s also got practical value.”

Cas, who has just stepped inside the bedroom after following at a much more sedate pace, pokes his head out the window alongside Dean’s and speaks up.  “It will allow us to summon you if we require your assistance, without you needing to check in on us in person at regular intervals.  Very clever, Sam.”

“Yeah, exactly,” Sam agrees. “You can call me to let me know what you need, or even just send a text to let me know what you need me to bring you.  That doesn’t,” he adds, giving Dean a very impressive side-eye, “mean I’m gonna be running in here every five minutes to indulge every random whim you have.  I’m still trying to figure out how to get you back to full size, after all, and I’m gonna need to sleep.”

“That will not be a problem,” Cas speaks up smoothly as Dean opens his mouth to defend himself, “I will ensure that we only reach out to you for legitimate needs, Sam.”

“Thanks, Cas,” Sam says, leaving Dean scowling between them, “and don’t even start, Dean.  Do you remember what happened when I gave you that walkie talkie after you broke your ankle?”

“That was like six years ago,” Dean argues, “and it was totally funny.”

“Maybe for you,” Sam snorts, “but I didn’t appreciate being woken up every hour on the hour.”

“No sense of humor,” Dean sighs, “but I wouldn’t do that to you now anyway.”

“Indeed,” Cas says, “if only because that would most assuredly qualify as intentional button pushing, and—“

“There are consequences when you deliberately annoy people,” Dean recites in his ‘I’m-definitely-mimicking-you’ tone of voice.  Cas’s only response to the tone of voice is a single raised brow before he turns back to Sam, whose lips are twitching slightly.

“Anyway,” Sam says, “You already had the Netflix app on your phone, so you guys should be good to go if you want to watch movies or whatever.”

“Seriously, Sammy,” Dean says sincerely, “thanks a million.  You’re the best.”

“No problem.  I’m gonna do a little more reading before I call it a night, so if you need anything in the next hour or so I’ll be around.  If not, I’ll check on you in the morning.”

“Sounds good,” Dean says, “I—wait a minute,” he interrupts himself as something occurs, glancing from the phone to the window.  “How the hell did you get the phone in here?  There’s no way it fit through the window, and—“

“Grab the windowsill and hold on,” Sam tells him.

“Wait, what?”

“Trust me,” he insists, and Dean shrugs and grabs on as Sam reaches down and neatly swings the entire house open in the middle.

“What the fuck?!” Dean demands, horrified, suddenly staring at where one of the walls used to be.

“It’s so kids can play with it,” Sam says patiently, “otherwise what are they gonna do, look in the windows?”

Okay, he’s got a point, but it’s still unsettling.

“Close it up!” Dean orders, glowering, and Sam shrugs and carefully pushes the house back together.  Dean hears what sounds like the snick of a latch or maybe a magnet as it clicks shut, then pokes his head back out the window. “Dude, please just never do that again when I’m around.  There’s something creepy about having a house that opens up.  Even if it weren’t Lisa Frank’s wet dream.”

“Hold up,” Sam says, lips twitching violently, “what do you know about Lisa Frank?”

“Too goddamn much,” Dean snaps, “and no, I’m not telling you why.  Go away.”

“And goodnight to you, too,” Sam tells him, still looking amused.  “Night, Cas.”

“Goodnight, Sam,” Cas says from beside him, “and thank you for everything.”

Sam sketches a small wave before departing, and Dean turns to Cas to say something about movie access, but freezes at the look on the angel’s face, barely resisting the urge to demand ‘what?’  It never goes over real well when he does that.

“That was quite rude,” Cas observes, looking distinctly unimpressed, “particularly considering how much effort Sam has gone to today for your benefit.  Thankfully, you are now quite undamaged, which means—“

“Aw, Cas, c’mon,” Dean protests as they both pull their heads back inside and stand up, “I’ll apologize to Sam.”

“Yes, you will,” Cas says, “And a bedtime spanking should serve as a good reminder not to let teasing devolve into rudeness.”

He wants to argue more, but since he’s literally never successfully argued himself out of a promised spanking and he has definitely argued himself _into_ more severe ones, he snaps his mouth shut, aiming his scowl at the floor.

“But first perhaps we can watch a movie.  I believe Sam mentioned snacks and a beer for you in the kitchen.  Why don’t you go get whatever you would like while I pick something to watch?”

Lest his bedtime spanking be upgraded into a right-now spanking, Dean goes ahead and heads downstairs, taking the opportunity to mutter under his breath while Cas can’t hear him.

In the kitchen, his mood is much improved by the discovery that the mountain has come to Muhammed—that is, a tiny plastic bag of miniscule pieces of the potato chips his epic journey aimed to retrieve has been carefully set on the kitchen counter, along with what looks like another bag of cookie crumbs and two goldfish crackers.  They’re about the same size as Dean’s head, but should be manageable if he eats with both hands and takes small bites.

He tucks the chips and cookie crumbs under one arm, grabs the thimble of beer in the other hand, and carefully makes his way back upstairs to find that Cas has somehow navigated himself into the local news app Dean uses to keep track of any potential cases in the region.

“Dude,” Dean demands, “seriously? News?” 

“I had a hunch,” Cas says, “and believe me when I tell you that you will not be sorry that I explored this.  Come sit.”

Dean obligingly crosses the room to settle down on the loveseat, setting his snacks and beer on the little end table tucked beside it and making another note to ask Sam for more detail about where the furniture came from.

Cas uses the glove fingertip to prod at a video link, and after a moment an anchor is speaking onscreen.  Cas backs up, settling himself on the loveseat beside Dean as he listens.

“Weather is next, but first we bring you a somewhat bizarre story from Li’l Angels Daycare.”  Dean snorts loudly, both at the realization of what this news story is about and the name of the daycare, because that’s a whole new level of irony.  “The facility reports that they suffered a burglary this afternoon.  Staff was in the next room at the time, but believe that the culprit entered and exited through a window.  The only eyewitness to the crime was a three-year-old girl, and staff informed News 6 that the child referred to the burglar as “Mr. Rapunzel the Giant.”  With her parents’ permission, we sought out a quote from the young lady in question.  Her take on the situation?  ‘He was nice and he let me touch his hair.’  Unsurprisingly, police sketch artists have been unable to put together a reasonable likeness based on her description.”

Dean wants to hear the rest of the story, he really does, but it’s getting a hell of a lot harder to contain his laughter as they go on.

“That’s right, Alicia,” the other anchor says, “but it gets even stranger.  Staff at the daycare report that the only thing that appears to be missing is a single dollhouse, and that in its place they found a note that reads ‘Sorry, I’ll bring it back,’ in addition to a fifty-dollar bill.  The daycare assures parents that it is reviewing its security procedures and that the windows will be nailed shut prior to the facility opening tomorrow morning.”

“Currently the police are not hopeful about locating the suspect, but we’ll bring you more on this story if there are any developments.  Now on to Derrick with the weather.”

The video ends, and Dean loses it, practically sliding off the loveseat.  “Oh, my God,” he gasps, “I am never calling Sam anything but Mr. Rapunzel the Giant ever again.  That is _gold.”_

Even Cas is chuckling as he gets up to switch the phone over to Netflix and pulls up an episode of Dr. Sexy.

“Aww,” Dean says, starting to get control of his cackles, “you do love me.”

“Only one episode,” Cas tells him sternly. “You are still exhausted.”

Dean doesn’t bother to argue, just tugs Cas back down onto the loveseat and curls up with him to watch. 

By the time the episode’s over, Dean has destroyed the entire bag of chips, half the cookies, and he is indeed yawning, eyes heavier than he would’ve expected considering that he took at least three naps today, however brief they may have been.  “You were right,” he tells Cas, “I’m bushed.  Let’s call it a night.”

He manages to slip out of Cas’s arms and get to his feet, but he makes it only a single step before a hand tangles in the back of his shirt and reels him back in.  Well, damn.  It’s not like he actually expected Cas would’ve forgotten, but hope springs eternal.

“And so we shall,” Cas says mildly, “in just a moment.  First I believe there is a small order of business to take care of.”

“You know,” Dean complains, “you did tell me you wouldn’t interfere in how Sam and I interacted.”

“That is true, which is why this is a reminder rather than a punishment.”

“That doesn’t even make sen—“ Further protest is cut off as Cas settles himself more firmly on the edge of the loveseat before grabbing Dean’s wrist and tugging him over his lap.  He wastes no time in stripping Dean of both sweatpants and boxers.

“Suffice it to say,” Cas says, “that for someone who was punished quite severely scarcely half a day ago, your attitude has been somewhat less than ideal.  Perhaps not enough to be punished, but certainly more than enough to be _reminded.”_

“I still say,” Dean grumbles, “that that’s really just semantics.  A spanking’s a spanking.”

“In that case, perhaps you would like me to have you retrieve one of the other items Sam obtained at my request on his trip into town.  I trust the fact that the Barbie hairbrush is pink will not lessen its impact on your backside.  I had intended it to be used for true punishments, but since you see no meaningful difference between a reminder spanking and a punishment spanking, I see no reason that—”

“Okay, okay!  There’s a difference!  I’m sorry!”

“Are you quite certain?” Cas inquires, “I am more than happy to adjust my plans.  The hairbrush is right across the room, it would be quite easy to take it for a ‘test drive,’ as you might say.”

“No, no, I’m sure,” Dean tells him hastily, “absolutely sure, there’s a difference, I was just being whiny.”

“Very well then, I suppose we can restrict tonight’s meeting of the minds to my hand and your bottom.”

Dean has to bite back the urge to tell Cas he’s not as funny as he thinks he is, and a second later he’s not especially worried about the angel’s questionable sense of humor anyway, because his hand has started to rise and fall.

As always, he takes to the task quite diligently, starting at the top of Dean’s ass and alternating cheeks, moving downward, sparing not a single inch of flesh.  Even Dean’s upper thighs do not escape his attentions, and as soon as he’s given his favorite canvas a single coat, Cas starts back over from the beginning.  Dean grits his teeth a little, remaining silent, but by the time Cas gets to his thighs for the second time, he’s squirming a little bit, his butt cheeks clenching and unclenching in a fairly futile attempt to mitigate the sting.

“Why do I give you maintenance spankings, Dean?” Cas inquires, pausing and starting to rub the offended area.

“Because they help remind me.”

“Remind you of what?”

“Not to be a dickhead.”

“That is not precisely how I would phrase it.  Can you be more specific?”

Dean sighs.  “To remind me that there’s a difference between playful and disrespectful.  And to make up for all the rules I’ve broken that you don’t know about.”

“Good boy,” Cas says approvingly.  “And have you been sufficiently reminded?”

“Yes, sir,” Dean says instantly, “definitely mindful.  Well-maintained.  All of that.”

“It never hurts to be certain, does it?” The angel inquires cheerfully, and Dean groans as Cas’s hand starts to fall again.

“I find that phrasing unfortunate,” he tells Cas in between squirming, going ahead and rolling his eyes since he can’t see it.

“Now who lacks a sense of humor?” Cas teases, and even Dean has to grin, despite the building sting in his backside.

Cas gives him one more solid round of spanks before setting his clothing back to rights, helping him to his feet, and kissing Dean at least as soundly as he spanked him.

“Now,” he says, rising to his feet, “to bed!  You’ll need to be well-rested so you can make as much trouble as possible in the morning.”

“You’re not as funny as you think you are,” Dean tells him.

“That is likely true,” Cas concedes, “but then, neither are you.”

Even Dean has to admit that he might have a point there.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter-specific tag: Mild maintenance spanking in the context of a domestic discipline relationship.
> 
> AUTHOR'S NOTE:
> 
> I could NOT settle on a title for this chapter, so you ended up with this, mostly because Dean finally got his chips and it made me laugh.
> 
> I'm honestly not crazy about this chapter in general, but hopefully y'all like it more than I do.
> 
> You're also falling down on the commenting job (except for those of you that aren't, you know who you are and I love you)! Feedback is one of the things that keeps me writing. It keeps me coming back to this story, even though I'm currently working on three other things at the same time. It keeps me pushing through when I'm not entirely sure how to make something work or when I write an entire chapter and just plain don't really like it (not that such a thing ever happens *coughcough*). Feedback reminds me that there are people who are actually reading what I'm putting out there and enjoying it.
> 
> So humor me! Let me know you're here and you're reading, and if there's something specific you liked, something that made you smile, something that made you laugh or roll your eyes or climb in your bunk or groan, let me know about that, too. It's a bit of a rough week, and I could use the pick-me-up.
> 
> From here on out, my plan is to continue posting chapters on Wednesday. I'll see y'all next week!
> 
> If you haven't already, come find me on [tumblr](http://kreweofimp.tumblr.com)!


	9. Small Misunderstandings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which fluff, reunions, and what's that about twerking?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know, I know, I skipped updating last week without any warning, and now I'm giving you a short chapter. That's definitely my bad. Explanations, excuses, pleas for mercy, and being as cute as possible in the hopes of forgiveness can be found in the author's note after the chapter.
> 
> Also, this chapter is unbetaed. Any errors in it are most definitely my fault and mine alone.

“Dean.”

“Nrg?”

“Dean, wake up.”

“Nnnn.”

“Dean, you have a visitor.”

“Mmm…whu?”

“Someone is here to see you.”

Cas’s voice is patient and slightly amused. It’s also dragging Dean out of a deep, supremely restful sleep, which makes it somewhat less endearing than it might otherwise be.

“Sleepin’. Tell S’m…come back later.”

“It is not Sam. Come now, open your eyes.”

“Too early.”

“It is almost 9:30 and you have been asleep for over eight hours.”

“Fifteen more minutes.”

“Where was that hairbrush again?”

Cas is clearly joking, but the quip serves the intended purpose as Dean cracks open one eye to glare balefully at the angel, who is standing fully clothed beside the bed. Rather than responding to the accusatory look, Cas simply points toward the foot of the bed. Grunting, Dean rolls over and directs the single eye (the other one is still not sold on this whole being awake thing) in the noted direction.

For a second he doesn’t get what all the fuss is about. There’s nothing there.

Then there’s a hint of movement and he spots what he was missing. Poking up over the edge of the mattress are two gently waving antennae.

“Gregor!” Dean cries, suddenly fully awake. It’s been less than a day (hell, he’s known the little guy less than a day), but so much has happened that it feels like he hasn’t seen the roach in weeks.

The little antennae flail around happily at the recognition, and a second later there’s a soft scrabbling sound, before Gregor’s head pops up, shortly followed by the rest of his body. Dean is already reaching out both hands toward him, and the roach scurries rapidly up the bed, patting Dean’s face enthusiastically with both antennae.

Dean manfully suppresses the sudden urge to giggle, settling instead for patting the little guy’s carapace affectionately.

“I’m so happy to see you,” he tells Gregor. “And I see you’ve met Cas.”

The angel, who has been watching the reunion with a small smile on his face, nods. “Indeed, I have been honored to make the acquaintance of your small friend and savior. He is remarkably charming,” Cas says, tactfully leaving off the implied ‘for a cockroach.’

“Isn’t he? I’m so glad you found me!” Dean tells him. “We’ll still have to be careful, because my brother—well, Sam won’t…understand.”

Gregor, whose antennae have been happily waving throughout, pauses and cocks his head to the right, in a gesture so entirely reminiscent of Cas that Dean is forced to conceal a snort of amusement behind a cough. Cas translates for him unnecessarily. “He is wondering what you mean by this.”

“Sam—doesn’t…he doesn’t like cockroaches,” Dean says, marveling at the fact that he feels like he’s admitting to a minority that he’s got a racist uncle. “Well,” he adds hastily, as Gregor’s antennae start to droop, “it’s not exactly that he doesn’t _like_ you. It’s more that he’s scared of you.”

This does not appear to have helped the situation, as Gregor droops even more, looking about as thoroughly miserable as a kicked puppy.

“I believe you have hurt his feelings,” Cas says delicately, with a hint of reproach, and Dean glares at him.

“Well, I can _see_ that,” he hisses, before returning to stroking Gregor’s smooth body in as comforting a manner as he can muster. “I know, buddy. It’s not fair. But it’s his loss. He’s missing out bigtime.”

Gregor’s antennae perk slightly before drooping again, and Dean looks helplessly to Cas for any ideas on how to fix this. The angel shrugs before turning to the roach. “Irrational prejudices can be quite hurtful,” he says gently to Gregor, “but Dean is indeed right that if Sam is too entrenched in his own baseless fears to accept your friendship, he is the one who is missing out.”

The roach peeks up at Cas in a way that can only be described as uncertain. Cas nods encouragingly, and Dean shoots a grateful look at him, then turns back to Gregor. “And anyway, we’ll talk to him. Maybe you’ll be the roach who can help him past his phobia.” Gregor lifts his head a little, antennae quivering hopefully as Cas shoots Dean a warning, don’t-get-his-hopes-up look. “I can’t make any promises,” Dean tells the roach, very lightly stroking one of his antennae, “but we can definitely give it a shot, okay?”

The little wiggle of Gregor’s back end once again reminds Dean powerfully of a dog wagging its tail. He hides a smile and stretches a little, yawning hugely before flopping back onto a pillow. “Ordinarily,” Cas says, “I would have no objection to you going back to sleep for a bit, particularly with your new…er, cuddle buddy, but as it happens, you have another visitor, and this one was unable to fit up the stairs.”

“Stuart?” Dean demands, and Cas nods, clearly suppressing a grin as he shakes his head.

“I cannot say I had ever before seen—or even imagined seeing—a cockroach riding a rat, but apparently wonders will indeed never cease,” he observes meditatively, and Dean cracks up at the mental picture.

“I’m sorry I missed that,” he says, “but maybe they can be convinced to give me a repeat performance.” Gregor’s antennae quiver happily at the suggestion, and Dean pats him again. “You,” he tells the roach, “are most definitely my favorite insect ever.”

Gregor is completely overcome by the compliment, and actually buries his little head in the covers for a moment, presumably to get his emotions under control. Dean refrains from mentioning that Gregor is also the first insect he’s ever felt anything more than either disgust or indifference toward, lest he ruin the moment. “I’m gonna get dressed, buddy. Then we can go see Stuart.”

Sam was kind enough to wash out Dean’s clothes in the sink last night, so he’s actually able to wear his same outfit from yesterday, mostly. The boxers, which he made the mistake of wearing to bed, are definitely in need of a wash too, so he leaves them on the floor and goes commando, a state of affairs which Cas notes with apparent interest. The angel takes a single step toward Dean, a look on his face which suggests only too clearly that he intends on availing himself of a boxer-less Dean, but he pauses when Dean hisses at him. “Not in front of Gregor!”

Cas glances at the roach, then back at Dean before sighing slightly. “He is not a child, Dean. There is no need to protect his delicate sensibilities.”

“It’s just weird, okay? I’m not an exhibitionist. I don’t have sex in front of my friends.”

Rolling his eyes, Cas motions Dean to carry on getting dressed, ceding the territory. Dean chooses to ignore the fact that the angel’s lips are twitching very slightly in poorly suppressed amusement, and once he’s all dressed, he beckons the roach. “Wanna go see Stuart?”

Gregor waggles his back end again, and Dean grins. “C’mere, boy!”

The roach obligingly scuttles down off the bed and follows Dean as he heads for the stairs, Cas drifting in their wake.

~*~

The rat is likewise pleased to see Dean, if slightly more reserved in his response. Hugs and pats are exchanged, Cas is kind enough to translate, and all in all, if you have to be both awake and five inches tall, two good reunions are a solid way to start a morning.

Eventually Dean’s body gets the best of him, however, and he has to retire back into the house to visit the facilities (which Sam returned to the bathroom after cleaning last night). When he emerges, Cas waits for him on the loveseat, Gregor at his feet. Dean has the distinct sense that if a roach could curl up, Gregor would be curled up. Instead, he’s resting his—do roaches have chins? Well, he’s resting whatever’s at the same place a chin would be on Cas’s shoe, apparently quite content.

“I’m starving,” Dean announces. “Any sign of Sam this morning?”

“He checked in around seven before going for a run, and stated that if you called once you were awake, he would bring something to eat.”

“Okay, let’s make this happen,” Dean says, striding across the room to the phone, pausing long enough to snag the glove fingertip. It definitely takes a little effort, but the thing works. Dean navigates his way to contacts and in a few moments, the phone is set to speaker and ringing.

“Hey, you’re up,” Sam says, answering after only two rings. Dean cringes, recoiling at the loudness of the voice emerging from his phone. 

“Jesus, Sam, go easy on my ears!” he complains, scrabbling to adjust the volume. His hands aren’t quite powerful enough to push the volume buttons on the side of the phone, but after a moment and some rapid experimentation, Dean discovers that head-butting it works really well. He chooses to ignore the poorly-stifled snickers from Cas in the background.

“I’m not getting you beers first thing in the morning, Dean.”

“What? No. I’d rather have coffee. And I’m hungry.”

“…what does Gumby have to do with anything?”

“Gumby? What the hell are you talking about, dude? No, I need _food.”_

“I’m not being rude!”

“Oh, for the love of…you can’t hear me, can you?”

“You want _fondue?”_

Cas’s snickers have developed into full-on chortling at this point, and if Dean weren’t so annoyed by this failure, he’d probably be joining in. For the moment, though, he settles for yelling at the top of his lungs into the phone.

“Yeah, _this isn’t working.”_

“Holy shit, Cas is _twerking?_ This I’ve gotta see. Be right there.”

Dean is left staring stupidly at the disconnected phone, trying to wrap his brain around the mental image of Cas twerking. Turning to the angel, who is laughing harder than ever, Dean rolls his eyes.

“Well,” he says, pretty sure he knows how to cut those cackles off at the pass, “you can’t disappoint your public. I guess you’re gonna have to twerk for Sam.” Cas’s laughter is immediately replaced by an expression of wide-eyed horror, and now Dean’s the one losing it. “Or at the very least,” he adds between snickers, “if you’re too embarrassed to show Sam, you’ll have to give me a private demonstration later. I bet you can jiggle that ass great.”

Cas’s eyes narrow slightly at him before he raises a single brow in a gesture that never fails to send a shiver down Dean’s spine. “While I do indeed have some expertise in that area, it is not my own ass that I generally cause jiggling in. I can certainly provide a demonstration of my skills for you after breakfast though, if you feel you have not spent enough time over my knee recently. I venture there is nobody who can make your backside wiggle as enticingly and artistically as I can.”

“That’s okay,” Dean says hastily, “we both know you’re good at that, no need to show off.”

“Oh, but Dean,” Cas fairly purrs, standing up (Gregor obligingly shifts away enough to allow the angel free movement) and prowling towards Dean, “you seemed so eager for a private show, and far be it from me to ‘disappoint my public.’ It is decided. Later today I will provide concrete proof of exactly how ‘great’ I can jiggle a certain ass.”

Dean finds himself backing away, although it’s not because he has any real desire to escape from either Cas or his sensual threat. It’s more about the pleasure of being _hunted,_ not to mention seeing the predatory intent flare up in Cas’s eyes. “Can we just start this conversation over?” Dean asks hopefully, never mind the fact that if Cas did go back on that promise, he would sulk for hours and probably end up earning himself the not-fun kind of spanking.

“Oh, we will have an entirely different conversation after breakfast,” Cas promises, crossing the final two steps to Dean in the blink of an eye. He neatly halts Dean’s retreat with an arm wrapped strongly around his waist, hauling him in and seizing his lips in a searing kiss.

Dean goes pliant in his grasp, sliding his arms up around the angel’s neck and throwing himself wholeheartedly into the kiss. It probably shouldn’t come as a surprise when Cas delivers an extremely solid smack to Dean’s denim-covered rear in mid-kiss but it earns a yelp anyway, which Cas easily swallows. 

The air of smug satisfaction around the angel when he finally releases Dean is so thick that Dean practically has to wade through it, but he doesn’t mind. He loves that ready dominance, the ease with which Cas can take pretty much any situation and neatly turn it on its head, putting himself back in perfect control of both Dean and…well, pretty much everything else.

“Consider that a small preview,” Cas growls, as Dean tries to pretend like he’s not reeling (and painfully turned on), “now what do you say?”

“Thank you, Sir,” Dean says, lowering his lashes to gaze at Cas through them, because two can play this game. Sure enough, Cas inhales a sharp breath, eyes narrowing just a little bit. He takes a single step forward, clearly considering foregoing breakfast altogether in favor of enacting his plans now, but a moment later the small rhythmic earthquakes that herald Sam’s arrival are vibrating through the house. Sighing irritably, Cas motions Dean toward the bedroom door, delivering another stinging smack as soon as he turns to head outside. Dean does a fairly poor job of stifling his squeak, tossing a playfully reproachful glance over his shoulder at the angel before he makes for the stairs. As he clambers down, he can hear Cas gently telling Gregor to remain inside for the moment.

“Okay,” a voice calls from the larger room’s doorway, “it occurs to me that either you’ve suffered some kind of weird psychotic break or else I misheard you, and I’m thinking the latter is probably more likely. But I’d still kind of like to see Cas twerking, for what it’s worth.”

Grinning, Dean takes a second to adjust his jeans before stepping out the front door.

“I said the same thing,” he tells his brother as soon as Sam approaches close enough, “and yeah, apparently I’m not loud enough to be heard clearly over the phone. What I was _trying_ to tell you is that I’m hungry.”

“I figured,” Sam says, crouching down to place a tea saucer in front of Dean, “and it’s just as well, cause I don’t know where the hell I would’ve found Gumby for you.” The tea saucer is sporting what look like several tiny sausages on it, next to a few miniscule pieces of toast, dripping with butter. 

“Oh God, that looks incredible,” Dean tells him reverently, grabbing a piece of toast and taking a giant bite. It’s at least as good as it looks. “You’re the best giant brother on the planet,” he tells Sam through a mouthful, ignoring Cas’s quiet but meaningful throat-clearing as he steps out the front door. He’s not crazy about Dean’s tendency to talk with a full mouth, especially when he sprays crumbs everywhere.

“You’re welcome,” Sam says, grinning a little, “and also, I thought you could maybe try this for silverware,” he adds, setting down one of the thumbtacks Dean used as a tool and a weapon yesterday. “You’ll have to be careful not to impale yourself, but it’s better than not having anything.”

Dean nods his gratitude and takes the offering, using it to spear one of the sausages. Turns out it works really quite well as long as Dean remembers it’s got a reasonably sharp point. With its help, he absolutely annihilates his breakfast in very short order.

“That was perfect,” he sighs finally, offering the remaining half of his final piece of toast to Stuart, who pads over and delicately snags it with his teeth. He’s about to wipe his mouth on his own sleeve when Cas appears as if by magic, carrying a torn off scrap of tissue that he uses to mop up Dean’s face. “Urk! Cas, c’moooonnn,” he whines, trying to dodge, “I’m pushing forty, I can manage to wipe my own face!”

“Certainly you _can,”_ Cas agrees mellowly, “the issue is that you frequently _don’t.”_

“Oh, come on, that’s an enormous overexaggeration,” Dean protests, “one time, _one time_ I forget to wipe my mouth after buffalo wings and you never let me live it down.”

“It is not merely eating in which you have this issue,” Cas points out, and Dean thinks with a sinking feeling he knows where the angel is going with this. “You’ve also been known to forget to wipe your face after we—“

 _“Okay,_ I’m pretty fucking sure Sam doesn’t want to hear about that,” Dean interrupts hastily, and Sam nods so vehemently that his hair produces a breeze that ruffles Dean’s flannel. “See? Boundaries, babe, remember?”

“I was merely correcting an inaccuracy,” Cas tells them both mildly, “but as you say.”

“And anyway,” Dean adds, unable to restrain himself despite knowing better, _“you’re_ the one who likes seeing my face all smeared with your—“

 _“Still here,”_ Sam reminds them, sounding distinctly put-upon and not a little grossed out, “but on that note, if you don’t need anything else, I’m gonna get back to my research. I’ve got a couple leads I want to check out. Best case scenario, if any of them pan out we could have you back to full size by the end of the week.”

“Thanks for breakfast,” Dean tells him, “and I think from now on maybe I’ll just text you when I need something?”

“You could,” Sam agrees, “or we could just keep rolling the dice on the phone calls and see whether we can top ‘twerking Cas’ on the hilarious misunderstanding front.”

“Tempting,” Dean muses, “we’ll see how desperate I am for whatever it is I need.”

“Stuart,” Sam addresses the rat respectfully, “you can come along with me while I research if you want. We can get you something to eat and I’ll bring you back whenever you’re ready.”

There’s a brief pause, then Cas turns to Sam and nods. “He would like that, and requests that if you have any, he would appreciate sunflower seeds and grapes.”

“Pretty sure I can manage both of those,” Sam says agreeably.

Stuart pads forward, then clambers onto Sam’s hand when he extends it. Carefully cradling the rat to his chest, Sam rises and sketches Dean and Cas a wave with his free hand before striding off, Stuart in tow. Dean watches them retreat, smiling fondly, as Cas steps up beside him. 

“This could be the beginning of a beautiful friendship,” the angel observes.

“I understood that reference,” Dean tells him, lips twitching slightly.

Cas turns to stare blankly at him. “What reference?”

_Seriously?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, gang. As those of you who've been with me for awhile know, I take great pride in meticulously maintaining my posting schedule unless a delay absolutely cannot be avoided.
> 
> Here's why this delay couldn't be avoided:
> 
> 1\. During the week in which I ordinarily would've been working on this chapter, I was writing a Very Special Birthday Surprise for one of my favorite humans. Although Down to Size didn't update last week, that piece was posted. It's a timestamp to the [Let It Snow 'verse](http://archiveofourown.org/series/386992), but it can easily be read as a standalone if you haven't got time for the behemoth that is [Snowbound](http://archiveofourown.org/works/5706808). It's called [On Thin Ice](http://archiveofourown.org/works/7469130), and you should check it out if you enjoy kinky PWP and are so moved.  
> 2\. Aforementioned favorite human ([Dangerousnotbroken](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Dangerousnotbroken/pseuds/Dangerousnotbroken)) and I are currently nonexistent-balls-to-the-wall hammering away at our DCBB to get the first draft finished before the August 15th deadline. It's a hell of a story that I am incredibly proud of, and I think y'all are gonna love it too. Out of necessity (because deadline), that currently needs to come first when it's time for me to write.  
> 3\. I may be slightly obsessed with Pokémon Go, and thus have been actually leaving the house and moving around more than I have in ages. Don't you judge me.  
> 4\. I've been shuttling Imp-the-Cat back and forth to his oncologists at the veterinary teaching hospital I take him to (which is enough of a drive that it requires some overnight stays) in order to complete his course of radiation. That finished up on Tuesday, so things should be at least a little quieter than they have been in recent memory.  
> 5\. Sometimes self-care has to come first. Last week, I woke up on Wednesday morning (in a hotel, with a cat who was refusing to eat), realized I needed to write, edit, and publish an entire chapter that day, and felt like I wanted to cry at the thought. That was my cue that it was time to give myself a break. I write because I love it. I write because it's fun. I write because it feeds my soul. When any of those things are suddenly not true anymore, that tells me it's time to take a breather--so that's what I did.
> 
> So there you are, my many excuses for the skipped week. Now for the part that's going to frustrate some of you:
> 
> For the moment, and until the DCBB first draft is in on August 15th, I'm suspending my posting schedule.
> 
> What this means: I cannot and will not guarantee you a chapter every week, or a specific day that chapters will post.  
> What this does NOT mean: I'm not going to post at all between now and then or Down to Size will be perpetually unfinished. 
> 
> I WILL likely post chapter(s) before August 15th, I just need to give myself the leeway to let that happen when there's time for it. And Down to Size will absolutely not remain one of those eternal WIPs, hanging in limbo. I wouldn't do that to you.
> 
> If DtS has not been completed by the time the DCBB is finished and turned in, I will pick back up with a regular posting schedule again. That's my promise to you.
> 
> In the meantime, say nice things because I need to hear them, and look out for some quality PWP and the introduction of a brand new original character when DtS returns!
> 
> Also please don't hesitate to come find me on [tumblr](http://kreweofimp.tumblr.com). I love talking to my readers!


	10. Looming Large

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Cas really, really doesn't understand that reference (but that doesn't stop Dean), Cas always follows through on his promises (or are they threats?), and the boys may have forgotten something. Something...big.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter specific tags and warnings can be found at the conclusion of the chapter, as always.
> 
> Please note that this chapter is largely unbetaed and any errors in it are thus entirely my fault!

It takes less than five minutes for Dean to ascertain that Casablanca is really something that ought to be experienced rather than explained—at least if the one you’re trying to explain it to is a slightly clueless, socially inept angel.  Probably Dean’s inability to refrain from doing his best Humphrey Bogart impression doesn’t help the situation.

“Here’s lookin’ at you, kid,” he rumbles, lightly chucking Cas under the chin and earning a perplexed cock of the head.

“I am neither a human child nor an infant goat,” Cas tells him, an expression of slight concern on his face, “and you look at me often.  Are you certain you are feeling well, Dean?”

“No, it’s…I was just…fuck it.  Yeah, I’m fine, but we’re finding out if Casablanca is on Netflix and watching it tonight if it is.”

“If you insist,” Cas tells him doubtfully.  It’s possible that Dean’s kind of convoluted description of the movie’s plot has made it sound somewhat less than appealing.

“I do,” Dean says, then clenches his teeth, trying very hard to control himself.  _Don’t do it,_ he tells himself, _do_ not _do it._  

He does it.

“If you don’t see this movie,” he tells Cas, with passion entirely disproportionate to the actual issue in question, “you’ll regret it.  Maybe not today and maybe not tomorrow, but soon and for the rest of your life.”

Cas stares at him, looking more concerned than ever, actually reaching up a hand to feel Dean’s forehead, presumably gauging his temperature.  “Was that a _threat,_ Dean?  Are you quite sure you’re not ill?”

“No, it was another…forget it.  My Humphrey Bogart apparently leaves a little to be desired.  _Anyway,”_ he goes on hastily, intent on distracting Cas, who looks like he’s not sure whether to be more confused or worried.  Dean really ought to know better than to try to explain movies, “do you think we should check on Gregor?  He was so sad about Sam.”

Thankfully, Cas’s marked similarities to your average puppy extend far enough to make him reasonably easy to distract, with a few notable exceptions (like pretty much any time there’s even the slightest hint that Dean might have misbehaved in some way), and he’s only too willing to pick up this thread. 

“Oh, yes!” he says, frowning, “we should indeed go check on him.  And then encourage him to go get himself something to eat.”

“What gives?” Dean demands, mostly joking, “are you trying to get rid of all my friends now?”

“Scarcely,” Cas says, rolling his eyes at Dean’s tendency toward the dramatic, “but you did make it clear earlier that there are certain activities you prefer not to engage in with your friends present.  Personally,” he goes on, a glimmer of amusement in his voice, “it makes no difference to me, and I rather imagine Gregor would be undaunted by the sight of your bare bottom dancing over my knee, as cockroaches are not known for their prudishness, but—“

“ _O_ -kay,” Dean interrupts hastily, squirming a little.  Cas subsides into silence, clearly as pleased as ever with his own ability to reduce Dean to stammering and fidgeting without laying a single finger on him, “I get it, I get it.  We’ll tell him to get something to eat.”

“An excellent decision,” Cas says mildly, taking Dean’s elbow in one hand and escorting him back through the front door of the dollhouse.  Dean wonders briefly whether he should be disturbed by the fact that he no longer flinches upon walking into the bubble-gum pink sparkly interior.  Probably nothing to worry about unless he starts getting the urge to voluntarily decorate this way, he figures.

Gregor must have been listening for the sound of the front door because almost immediately after it closes behind them, Dean can hear the soft skittering of insectile feet on plastic.  A moment later the familiar head pops up over the top of the stairs, and Dean can’t help but grin at the eager quivering of Gregor’s antennae.

“Hey bud,” he greets, starting the somewhat laborious task of clambering up the slightly too-tall stairs, “I’m sorry I didn’t bring you in any leftovers from breakfast.”  Gregor, who is practically vibrating with excitement while he waits for Dean and Cas to reach the top of the stairs, appears unbothered by the lack of a doggy bag (cockroach bag?).  As soon as Dean reaches the second floor, Gregor bonks his head affectionately against Dean’s shin, waggling his hind end.  Dean glances over his shoulder to find Cas barely suppressing a grin.

“He wishes you to know that he’s quite capable of obtaining his own food, and that, while he appreciates the thought, he’s simply pleased to see you.”

“How,” Dean demands, crouching to pat Gregor, “is it possible that you are this cute?”

Gregor makes a movement that Dean’s pretty sure is the closest a cockroach can do to shrugging, then waves a single spiky little leg in a gesture that cannot possibly mean anything other than “oh, _you.”_

“Every time I think our lives can’t get weirder,” Dean observes meditatively, lightly stroking Gregor’s…huh.  Some part of his body.  Dean really needs to do some research on cockroach anatomy so he can start calling shit by its proper names, even if only in his head.

“I appreciate your point,” Cas says, doing a poor job of concealing his amusement, “but it seems to me that a statement like that is practically an invitation to further oddities.”

“Maybe,” Dean allows, settling down cross-legged to continue patting Gregor, paying no mind to the fact that poor Cas is still trapped on the top step behind him, “but at least a lot of the most recent weirdness has actually been kind of awesome?”

Cas sighs deeply.  “And now you have junked us.”

“I…wait, what?”  Dean pauses in mid pat, swiveling his head around to stare blankly at Cas.  “I’ve what us, now?”

“Junked us,” Cas repeats patiently.

“I’ve honestly got no idea what—oh.  _Oh,”_ Dean says as his brain finally makes the connection.  “No, you mean I’ve _jinxed_ us.”

Cas frowns slightly, processing this, then shrugs, accepting the amendment with good grace.  Thankfully, given the frequency with which idioms escape him, he tends to be fairly philosophical about being corrected.  “Very well, you have _jinxed_ us.  I would advise relocating this gathering to either the bedroom or the living room downstairs, as this is a somewhat awkward spot.”

“If you _insist,”_ Dean gives his most put-upon sigh and ostentatious eye-roll, aiming to get a chuckle from Cas, and is pleased to see that he succeeds.  With one last pat, he clambers to his feet and heads for the bedroom, Gregor scuttling in his wake.

~*~

“Gregor is anxious to know whether we have spoken to Sam yet,” Cas transmits several minutes later, lightly stroking his fingers through Dean’s hair.  He’s settled on the loveseat in front of the phone with Dean seated on the floor in front of him, leaning back against Cas’s legs.  Gregor’s little chin is propped on Dean’s knee as Dean scritches at his prothorax (Dean has Cas to thank for the fact that now he actually knows what it’s called).

Dean grimaces a little at the question, casting a quick narrowed eye up at the angel for diverting it onto Dean rather than answering it himself.

“Not yet, buddy,” Dean says gently, “and it’s probably gonna be more than one conversation.  It’s gonna take some time.”  Gregor’s antennae start to droop and Dean hastily speaks up again, voice teasing.  “What’s the matter, Cas and I aren’t enough for you?  You already on the hunt for better company?”

The roach’s head jerks up and he recoils in exaggerated horror at the very idea.  Dean has the distinct sense that he’s being teased, and can’t help but grin a little.

“The phrase he used cannot be translated directly,” Cas says thoughtfully, “but it approximates to something like ‘the very _idea’_ or ‘heaven forbid.’”  It doesn’t do to even think about how much explaining it took before Cas grasped that the phrase ‘heaven forbid’ did not actually refer to heaven literally forbidding anything, but Dean’s pleased to see that the lesson appears to have stuck.  “Gregor,” Cas goes on, addressing the roach directly, “you have my word that we will approach the topic with Sam under the proper circumstances, is that acceptable?”

There’s a brief pause, in which Dean again wishes that he could somehow hook into Cas’s ability to converse with pretty much anything alive.  “Of course,” Cas says, a slight smile in his voice, “and you will certainly be the first to know about any progress that we make.  But for the moment, might I request that you consider going to find yourself something to eat?  Dean and I have a matter to attend to for which he would prefer privacy.”

Dean swivels his neck around to glare accusingly at Cas.  “Damn, dude!  Way to throw me under the bus!  That’s just cold.  I can’t believe y—“ Dean cuts off as Cas’s warm, strong hand settles firmly around the back of his neck and squeezes lightly, a wordless warning to watch the attitude.  A quick glance at Cas’s face reveals a hint of a smile, and Dean relaxes a little.  He’s not _actually_ in trouble, he’s just…‘in trouble.’  A moment later, Cas snorts loudly, a sound of such rarity that Dean actually does a double-take.  “I will not,” Cas says, lips twitching violently, “pass along the impressively vulgar observations Gregor has made as to our likely activities, merely observe that you seem to have found a kindred spirit, Dean.”

Gregor’s antennae quiver in something that looks suspiciously like laughter, and Dean grins down at him.  “Whatever you said, I’m pretty sure I’d give you a high five if it were anatomically possible.  Catch you later, dude.”

The roach bonks his head lightly against Dean’s knee in affectionate farewell and then scuttles to the wall of the room that harbors the window in which Sam removed a pane to allow the phone charger in.  Cas snorts again as Gregor skitters up the wall and out the window.  “He says that he will see you later, if there’s anything left of you when I am finished.”

Dean blinks a couple times, huffing out a breath before yelling after the roach, “hey, what the hell?  I can totally keep up!  That’s messed up, I thought we were bros!”

“He’s laughing,” Cas translates, as the roach presumably skitters down the side of the house to go in search of food.

Dean frowns a little, then murmurs in a hushed voice to Cas “He’s not, like, gonna hang out nearby and listen or anything, is he?”

“He is not,” Cas says, “he is already halfway across the room.  He did, however, hear that, and he’s somewhat offended at the implication.  Cockroaches have excellent hearing,” he adds, as Dean opens his mouth to object that he was quiet.  Dean sighs, shutting his mouth, and Cas raises a finger in indication to hold on a moment, then nods.  “He is out of earshot, and in all seriousness urges us to have fun.”

“Easy for him to say,” Dean grumbles, “when he’s not the one who—“

“is about to have his backside nicely pinkened up for him?” Cas suggests, leaning down to snag Dean by one arm and the scruff of his neck and easily manhandling him across two powerful thighs. 

Dean makes a sound that he will resolutely insist is not a squeak (or at least not more of a squeak than every other damn sound he makes at the moment) at suddenly finding himself ass up over Cas’s lap.  He ends up in this precise position often enough that it really shouldn’t ever come as a surprise, but somehow Cas still manages to catch him off-guard.  “Yeah,” he says breathlessly, wriggling a hell of a lot more than he would dare to if he were actually being punished, “pretty much that.”

“Squirmy today, are we?” Cas inquires, the question clearly rhetorical, “perhaps I ought to bind you.”

Dean squirms a little more, shaking his head wordlessly.  It’s still hard for him to verbalize what he wants more often than not.  Sometimes Cas pushes him on it, wanting him to be able to put words to his desires if only to acknowledge that there’s nothing shameful about them.  He doesn’t really need Dean to tell him, though, the ease of long familiarity allowing Cas to recognize exactly what Dean’s asking for, whether or not he makes it explicit.

“I see,” Cas says, voice deepening just a little with that edge of dark appreciation Dean has come to love so much.  Something about that tone, the way that it implies ownership and dominance—and the intention to make ample use of both, just _gets_ Dean.  “As it happens,” Cas goes on, “I do not actually need to tie you down.  I can easily pin you here, just so, exactly as I want you, with nothing but the strength of my hands.”

And there it is.  _That’s_ what Dean wants this morning.  That’s what was speaking to him—the desire to be taken in hand, to be held down and forced to submit to something they both know he actually wants.  No restraints, no toys, nothing but his body, dominated completely by Cas’s.

“Hips up,” Cas says, a hint of steel in his voice, “I want to see how prettily I can make that bottom pink up, and I can hardly do so through your jeans.”

Instead of obeying, Dean flings himself sideways, as if to climb off Cas’s lap.

He doesn’t actually get anywhere—they both knew there was no way he was ever going to.  Hell, he wasn’t really _trying_ to get away, although he definitely put most of his strength into the movement.  Instead, he’s putting up a fight while also ensuring that he makes it possible for Cas to do what he wanted to do in the first place. 

The plan, such as it is, goes off without a hitch.  Cas neatly snags one powerful arm around Dean’s waist, jerking Dean securely against his middle.  He tuts disapprovingly.  “Oh, no, no, no, sweet boy,” he practically purrs, “I am not done with you yet.  Indeed, I have not even _started._ But we will certainly deal with that little rebellion.”That arm around Dean’s midsection also allows him to hold Dean up off Cas’s thighs just far enough that his other hand is able to worm between his lap and Dean’s groin, deftly unbuttoning and unzipping his jeans.

Dean squirms harder as Cas presses him back down onto his lap, the single hand he plants at the small of Dean’s back more than enough to immobilize him.

“Caaaaaas,” Dean says, “c’mon, you don’t have to—“

“No,” Cas agrees, the smile in his voice just a little feral, “I simply want to.”

Dean has to bite his lip to stifle the groan, cock jerking hard, still trapped inside his jeans.

The angel’s free hand tangles in the waistband of Dean’s jeans, slowly dragging them down over the curve of his ass.  He takes his time, totally undeterred by Dean’s kicking legs, making it clear to both of them that this is going to happen in his way and on his time, not Dean’s.

“Mmmm,” Cas hums his enjoyment, working the jeans down to mid-thigh and leaving them there, where they’ll prevent Dean from kicking too enthusiastically, “I do love that sight.  Perhaps the only sight I love more than those round cheeks over my lap, pale and begging for a little color, is the sight of them once I have attended to them properly, when they are not nearly so pale.”

Dean cannot stifle the groan this time.  Jesus, the _mouth_ on Cas.  He knows how to dismantle Dean with nothing more than his words and the right tone of voice, and he’s never hesitated to take advantage of the ability.  “Jesus, Cas,” he breathes, “if you don’t stop—“

“What?” Cas interrupts, making no attempt to conceal the amusement in his voice, “you will squirm?  You will kick and beg and whine?  You will already do all of those things.  But no,” he says, voice slightly sly, “I do not believe that is what you were warning me of.  I think you meant that if I do not stop, you may come all over my leg like a boy of 16, unable to control his own arousal.  Is that what you meant, Dean?  Answer me.”

Dean whimpers, pressing his forehead hard into the surface of the loveseat.  “I—yeah.  Yeah.”

The first smack falls against the underside of Dean’s left cheek, the crisp sound echoing through the bedroom so loudly that it’s that rather than the familiar sting that causes Dean to jerk, startled.  “Would you care to rephrase that?” Cas inquires, the silkiness in his voice doing nothing to conceal the danger.

“Yes, Cas, that’s what I meant,” Dean says, knowing he’s instigating and not particularly caring.

He’s not surprised when another smack falls just as sharply on the opposite cheek, “Try that once more,” Cas orders, his words coming on the heels of Dean’s.

“Yes, Sir,” Dean says, finally giving in to what he knew Cas wanted in the first place.

“Better late than never, I suppose,” Cas says, mostly suppressing the fond smile in his voice as his palm starts to rub sensuous circles on Dean’s ass, “but I’m certain I can impart a lesson on timeliness that will stick with you for some time.”  Despite his words, he continues his softer ministrations, hand continuing to stroke until Dean is arching up into the touch needily.

It’s then that Cas draws his hand back again, letting it fall six times in quick succession over the meatiest part of Dean’s ass, earning a sharply indrawn breath.

“I do so love those little gasps,” Cas muses, “let me see how many I can earn.”

He goes to work then, methodically peppering the entire surface of Dean’s ass with quick, sharp slaps, opting for quantity over force.  Sensual spankings are very different than punishment ones—these are meant to be savored, to be enjoyed.  Punishment spankings are meant to deter and instruct.  They’re about the judicious application of pain and, yeah, humiliation as well (because even if under other circumstances Dean likes it, it’s fucking embarrassing as hell to be a grown-ass adult, bent over your boyfriend’s lap getting your ass blistered because you couldn’t _act_ like a grown-ass adult).  Sensual spankings have their own pain and humiliation attached, sure, but it’s different.  They always fall on the titillating side of the divide, the side that true punishments leave far in their wake.

Dean doesn’t bother trying to keep track of how many of those gasps Cas manages to draw out of him over the next several minutes, but he’s pretty sure it’s a lot.  Cas pauses frequently to rub, drawing circles with his palm or tracing nonsense shapes with his fingertips.  The first time a single finger skates down Dean’s crack to lightly press at his hole, he can’t quite bite back his moan, arching his back and trying to push his ass up into the finger, inviting—demanding—penetration.

Cas has never been particularly responsive to demands from Dean, and now is no different.  The finger withdraws instantly, but the hand it’s attached to wastes no time in taking advantage of Dean’s upraised ass, starting to fall steadily once more.

“That is lovely,” Cas compliments, teasing but sincere, “how nicely you presented yourself for me.  We mustn’t be greedy, though.  You’ll get what you want when I’ve gotten the color I’m looking for, and we’re nowhere near it yet.”

Dean groans in wordless frustration, and Cas takes the opportunity to let two fingers fall sharply directly across his hole.  He yelps, startled, ass clenching despite the fact that the sting really was minimal.  Cas chuckles softly above him, and as soon as Dean’s muscles relax once more, the two fingers come down again and still again.

The force with which they strike the tight furl of muscle is negligible, just enough to smart and tingle.  No individual swat is unbearable or even particularly intense, but Dean seriously doubts that Cas intends them to be.  What he’s going for is the cumulative effect, and he’s more than successful.  Dean can feel his hole clenching and relaxing, the stimulation both a mockery of penetration and a totally different experience in its own right.  The sting builds in tiny fits and starts, one steady swat at a time, and before long Dean doesn’t know whether to cringe away from the blows or arch upward into them in search of _more._ More pain, more stimulation, more contact, he doesn’t even know what, just…more.

He’s not sure when he started to plead, doesn’t actually remember beginning to speak, but it’s largely immaterial because Cas has no intention of stopping before he’s done, no matter how prettily Dean begs.  And to be fair, Dean’s not actually asking him to stop; not really.  He’s begging for more, for Cas to stop fucking _teasing_ with those sharp little taps and bury his fingers to the hilt.  He’s not especially surprised when Cas simply wraps his arm around his waist a little more firmly, tucking Dean closer against his midsection and continuing his ministrations.

Dean’s abortive attempts at squirming are no match for Cas’s strength—indeed, are probably laughable from Cas’s perspective, although he’s kind enough not to _actually_ laugh, and Dean is so wrapped up in sensation that it takes him a few moments to process that Cas is speaking.  He’s not sure how much he’s missed before he tunes in. “—lovely that pleading is.  Music to my ears, if you will, but as I’ve said, you will get more when I am good and ready to give it to you, and I’ve been sorely neglecting those lovely round cheeks in favor of that greedy little hole.  Why, I have not even touched your thighs yet.  I am, as you might say, falling down on the job.”

“Cas,” Dean whimpers, “please, c’mon, please just—“

“No,” Cas says simply, neatly cutting off Dean’s pleas, and finally those two fingers stop their steady fall as Cas again smooths his hand proprietarily across Dean’s rump.  “Now let us see if I can’t ensure that the rest of your lovely backside does not feel left out.”

~*~

Another ten or fifteen minutes later and Dean can confirm that no part of ass or thighs feels even slightly left out.  The uniform stinging heat that suffuses every inch of flesh from the base of his spine to mid-thigh tells him without having to see that Cas has achieved that bright pink just shy of true red that he’s so fond of. 

He’s been whimpering nonstop for Cas-only-knows how long at this point, his ass undulating in a way he’s sure reads like an invitation, if only because it is.  He alternates between cringing away from the swats and arching up into them, hovering between wanting it to stop and wanting it to go on forever.  His eyes are prickling just slightly, not yet tearing up but definitely thinking about it, although Dean’s pretty sure that has at least as much to do with frustration as with pain.

The feel of his heart beating in his ass is so all-consuming that it takes Dean a moment to realize that the smacks are not falling anymore, that Cas’s hand is simply resting lightly against the undercurve of his rear.  Cas waits until his whimpers dwindle into relative silence before removing his hand, pressing a single finger into one of Dean’s cheeks and humming approvingly when Dean hisses out a breath, cheeks flexing.

“Much better,” Cas muses, leaning over the arm of the loveseat to scrabble with something as he plants a hand very firmly on the small of Dean's back, silent warning not to get any ideas about getting up without permission. The sound of something metal scraping across the plastic floor breaks the quiet, and after a few seconds of utter perplexity Dean puts it together. Cas is sliding a thimble across the floor—one that damn well better be full of lube. Despite (okay, fine, because of) the throb of his butt—not to mention his still swollen hole, Dean finds himself arching his ass up once more, presenting it not just obediently but eagerly for what he hopes is coming.

Cas doesn’t disappoint him as a single slick finger probes at the tender muscle between his cheeks, circling once, then tapping teasingly before sliding home with little ceremony.  Dean groans loudly, not even trying to hold it back.  He’s been waiting for this, hell, _begging_ for this since the first moment Cas teased at him what feels like ages ago.

His hole is tender enough that the finger stings going in, but Dean welcomes the feeling, his wordless whimper more than enough of an invitation for Cas to give him more.  For once, Cas obliges, allowing a second finger to join the first, grazing both lightly against Dean’s prostate and causing his cock, already hard and leaking against Cas’s thigh, to twitch.

“Such a greedy little hole,” Cas murmurs, “begging to be filled up.  No matter how sore it is—and you should see how pink and swollen it is; words cannot do it justice—it still wants more.”

Dean is listening so intently that it takes him a moment to catch up and realize that the pair of fingers has been joined by a third as Cas sets about stretching him open with easy efficiency.  It’s not so fast that the burn within overwhelms the throbbing without, but neither is it so gradual that there’s no burn.

“Cas, please,” Dean chokes out after a few moments, unable to stop himself from begging.

“Please what?” Cas inquires with polite interest, deliberately rubbing his fingers firmly across Dean’s prostate and making his ass seize up tight around the invading fingers.

“More,” Dean groans, “please _more.”_

“More fingers?” Cas asks innocently, as if he doesn’t know exactly what Dean is begging for, “or is it possible that you want something else?”

“You know what I want,” Dean grits, feeling his face flame as hot as his ass, despite how long they’ve been doing this and how many times Cas has made him speak it aloud.  His words are almost immediately followed by a yelp as Cas lets his free hand fall _hard_ several times across the line where ass meets thighs, just beneath the driving fingers.

“Now seems a poor time to be sassing me,” Cas observes, and Dean groans again, knowing that sooner or later he’s gonna have to say it.

“I want your cock,” he whispers, and he can feel the blush spreading to the back of his neck at being made to ask for it directly.

“Oh, is _that_ what you wanted?” Cas says merrily, “happy to oblige,” and then before Dean quite knows it the fingers have withdrawn, leaving his muscles clenching pointlessly around nothing, the emptiness startling and disquieting.  He doesn’t have too long to focus on it because a moment later he’s been manhandled to his knees on the floor between Cas’s spread thighs.

Dean hisses out a breath as his tender ass makes contact with the floor, then gapes up at Cas for a moment.  The stare earns only a single raised brow and a pointed look at Cas’s own crotch in response, and that’s when Dean figures out what he did wrong. 

Yeah, he asked for it, but he didn’t specify.  He just said he wanted Cas’s cock, so Cas is going to give it to him—just not in the way he actually wanted.  At least, not yet.

Dean knows better than to argue—that’s a good way to end up right back where he was before, with a new layer of color building in his severely stinging backside—so instead he gets to work, unfastening the suit pants guarding the very prominent bulge before him, deftly moving aside the boxers.  Cas’s cock springs free, hard and weeping, and Dean doesn’t waste any time.  He knows what he wants, and the best way to get it is to get Cas close enough to the edge that he has to stop Dean or risk ending the proceedings early.

Without pause, he leans forward, letting Cas’s cockhead nudge past his lips.  He sucks lightly, swirling his tongue around the tip until he hears a low huff of breath from above him.  Then he slides his mouth down, drawing Cas inch by inch (well, probably more like millimeter by millimeter) into the warm, wet recesses.  Cas lets him work, settling a hand lightly atop Dean’s head but making no effort to use it to exert control, allowing Dean to take the lead for the moment.  In response, Dean puts to use every skill and trick he’s got (which is a considerable number) and before too long even Cas is struggling to hold back his grunts and hisses.

Drawing back enough to get a good breath and to swallow the saliva that’s been building in his mouth, Dean leans back down, taking Cas in again.  This time, though, he doesn’t stop until Cas is buried to the hilt in his throat, Dean’s nose nudging lightly against the tight curl of black hair at his groin.  This, finally, is enough to make Cas groan aloud, fingers tightening convulsively in Dean’s hair and making him shudder.

The feel of his own heels digging into his freshly-spanked ass keeps Dean in the present and with his eyes focused on the prize, as it were.  His focus pays off when he swallows hard around Cas’s cock, feeling it jerk.  The angel is on the verge of orgasm, Dean is sure, and his suspicion is borne out when the fingers in his hair suddenly draw him back, carefully but swiftly, off Cas’s cock altogether.  Dean takes in a breath, eyes darting up to meet Cas’s in some cross between silent challenge and plea.

Cas wastes no time, sitting back and settling himself more firmly into the loveseat.  “Come on then,” he tells Dean, breathing unsteady, “come get what I know you want.”

Dean doesn’t have to be told twice.  He’s on his feet in a moment, shimmying out of his jeans and leaving them in a careless heap on the floor as he climbs astride Cas.  True to his word, Cas stretches his arms out along the back of the loveseat and simply watches, allowing Dean to set the pace.  And Dean’s been waiting more than long enough.  Between how well Cas prepped him and how dripping wet the blowjob has left Cas’s cock, Dean doesn’t bother with additional lube, simply reaches behind him to grasp the base and begins to lower himself down onto it.

Their groans sound in concert as Cas’s cock breaches Dean, slowly sliding in until Dean’s no doubt bright pink ass is pressed firmly against Cas’s still-clothed thighs.  He whimpers a little at the combination of the interior stretch of Cas impaling him and the pressure of his own weight pushing down on his well-spanked flesh.

They both pause there, taking a moment to adjust, and then Dean starts moving, undulating slowly up and down, taking the time to enjoy the sense of fullness and the jolt of pain every time Cas’s thighs snug against his ass.

Cas’s hands tighten on the back of the couch, clear indication that he’s working to control himself, to refrain from digging bruises into Dean’s hips with his fingertips as he snaps his hips up relentlessly.  Dean rewards him with a kiss, leaning forward to press their mouths together, tongues tangling in a filthy wet, messy dance.  Cas allows Dean control of the pace at which he fucks himself on Cas’s dick, but takes control of the kiss almost immediately, hands finally leaving the couch to tangle in Dean’s hair and hold his head steady. 

The urgency of the kiss is contagious and Dean finds himself moving faster, rising up quickly and dropping back down more forcefully, his grunts and moans stifled in Cas’s mouth.

Dean can’t say for how long it goes on, just that it both feels like forever and no time at all before he feels Cas’s cock swelling a little with impending orgasm, and then Cas is drawing back with a tearing gasp, reaching down to grasp Dean’s thus far neglected dick and starting to jack it roughly.

“You’ve been so good,” he tells Dean with naked sincerity, his voice as raw and wrecked as if he’d been the one with a cock down his throat only minutes before, “now come for me.”

Dean’s never been real good at resisting him, and now is no different.  It can’t be more than ten or fifteen seconds later that his cock is spilling over Cas’s hand.  Cas groans in appreciation and relief as he finally releases the shreds of control he’s been grasping onto, allowing himself to follow Dean over the edge, cock pulsing deep inside.

Dean continues to fuck himself lazily on Cas’s cock until they’re both softening and approaching oversensitivity.  Only then does he collapse against the angel’s chest, feeling the warm, strong arms wind around him and hold him close.

Yeah, there are worse ways to start a day.

~*~

Sometime later, they’re both pleased to discover that Cas’s shrunk grace is still powerful enough to clean them both up along with their clothes.  This also means that Dean can put his boxers back on, a rather large relief considering that the scrape of denim across a well-spanked ass is not an experience he generally enjoys.

Sam brings lunch by around one (miniscule sloppy joes and some more chip crumbs, much to Dean’s delight), dropping Stuart off with his own lunch and a promise to come back for him in an hour or two.  Apparently Sam and the rat really are at the beginning of a beautiful friendship.  Who knew?

“I know there was something I meant to tell you,” Sam says, massive brows furrowed, “but damned if I can remember what it was.”

“Can’t have been that important,” Dean shrugs, way more interested in his lunch than in whatever random tidbit Sam’s forgotten.

“You’re probably right,” Sam sighs, shaking his head.  “Text or call if you need anything, I’m gonna go dig through the archives some more.”  He heads out with a little wave to Stuart, who gets up on his hind paws to wiggle his nose after Sam.

Dean’s nearly done with the meal and Cas has just popped back inside to grab something with which to mop up his admittedly messy face when it happens (what?  They’re called _sloppy_ joes for a reason, okay?).

He’s got a chip halfway to his mouth when he’s struck with the unshakeable certainty that he is being watched.  A quick glance around confirms that Cas is still inside the house and Stuart, who finished his own meal a lot quicker than Dean, has curled up near the front door for a post-meal nap (which doesn’t actually sound like a terrible idea).  His next thought is that maybe Gregor’s come back, but that’s—that just doesn’t feel quite right.

Over nearly an entire life of hunting, Dean’s learned better than to discount this kind of instinct.  Setting down the chip and ignoring his own messy face, Dean very slowly rises to his feet, turning to put the wall of the house at his back and performing a quick scan of the room.

He damn near misses it altogether, but the glimmer of iridescence from deep under the bed catches his attention just as he’s about to turn back in the other direction.

Dean startles sharply, taking an involuntary step backward, foot clattering against the tea saucer on which Sam brought lunch.  That seems to have acted as some kind of signal, and the glowing yellow eyes beneath the bed suddenly widen and then narrow sharply.  Dean can’t see the body attached to those creepily intent eyes, but he knows damn well what that means.  The very low growling that starts up simply confirms what Dean already knows: he’s in big fucking trouble, and not the Cas kind.

“Fuck,” he hisses, turning to flee from the attack he knows is imminent, “we forgot Punk.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter-specific tags/warnings: sensual spanking, hole spanking, oral sex, anal sex, D/s dynamics (duh).
> 
> AUTHOR'S NOTE:
> 
> Welp.
> 
> So much for posting again before August 15th. You’ve had to wait a whole month for this chapter, and I’m so sorry to do that to you. Here, have some shameless, filthy porn in repayment! 
> 
> Seriously, though, between [Dangerousnotbroken](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dangerousnotbroken/pseuds/Dangerousnotbroken) and I finally finishing our DCBB (which we are so fucking excited about, and since we've officially been claimed by an artist, you can now [click here for a summary!)](http://kreweofimp.tumblr.com/post/149232107192/dcbb-five-days-in-may), work, and somehow managing to break my freaking foot a week and a half ago, things have been a little intense. If you follow me on tumblr, you may already know that I am [officially on an indefinite hiatus](http://kreweofimp.tumblr.com/post/148851449532/update-from-kreweofimp) due to broken foot, pain meds, pain level, etc…
> 
> While I realize posting a new chapter may make it look like this is not so, I’m going to ask you to continue to consider me on semi-hiatus. That means I’m not gonna give you a posting schedule or try to estimate when you’re likely to see the next chapter any more specifically than “I really hope less than a month this time.”
> 
> Thanks for being patient with me and coming back for more, despite the wait. Y’all are the best!
> 
> Feel free to come find me on [tumblr](http://kreweofimp.tumblr.com), I love hearing from you guys!


	11. Bite-size

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which this is definitely not the beginning (or the middle, or really any part) of a beautiful friendship.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is again almost entirely unbetaed, so any errors are most definitely all on me and not on the multitude of wonderful betas I am too impatient to wait for. Don't hesitate to point out any typos or other errors. 
> 
> In that vein, I'd like to give a HUGE shout-out to [Hermit9](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Hermit9/pseuds/Hermit9), who spotted an embarrassingly massive continuity error in the previous chapter, allowing me to fix it before too many people saw my shame. You're the best!

_“CAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAS!”_ Dean’s pretty sure if he were still 73 inches tall, the sound he’s making would be properly termed ‘shrieking.’  Then again, if he were 73 inches tall rather than five, he wouldn’t be having this problem.  Anyway, the point is, Dean isn’t shrieking; he’s _squealing._ At the top of his voice.

Sadly, the top of his voice is somewhat less than impressive at the moment which means there’s a better than even chance that Cas isn’t going to hear him before Dean becomes a tasty snack.  And honestly, even if Cas does hear him and comes running out it’s quite possible that he’ll just become the second course.  Maybe not, though.  Punk has adored Cas from the moment they laid eyes on each other, and it seems likely that won’t change based on size.  Dean, though?  Well, he and Punk tolerate each other out of necessity.  That’s about the best that can be said of their relationship up till now and apparently, Punk’s tolerance only extended as far as the point at which Dean wasn’t conveniently bite-sized.

_“CAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAS!!! HEEEEEEEELLLLLP!!”_ Dean tries again as he rounds a corner of the dollhouse for the…third? Fourth?  Fuck it, he has no idea how many times at this point, counting has not been the uppermost item on his mind while he’s _running for his fucking life._

The monstrosity streaking after him is way the fuck stronger and faster (not to mention bigger) than Dean, so pretty much his only advantages are that he’s a better strategist and has a hell of a lot of experience with being hunted by things that are stronger and faster.  If Dean had fled away from the house rather than around it, he’d be a memory by now.  As it is, he’s counting on his superior ability to turn corners to keep the fucking cat at bay. 

So far it’s working, but Dean’s gonna tire out eventually, most likely a lot faster than Punk.  And if Dean stopped long enough to try to open the front door and get inside, the cat would be on him in a heartbeat.

Hence the screaming.

At least if the little shit eats him, Cas will be forced to admit (albeit slightly too late) that the fucking cat loathes Dean.  He’s been saying it since the very beginning, and it’s about damn time he was vindicated, if only posthumously.

And yeah, maybe Cas has a point when he says that Dean was prejudiced against the furry douchebag from the first, but it’s hard not to develop an antagonistic relationship with something that makes you sneeze violently and break out in hives.  Even Cas curing Dean’s cat allergy with a simple tap of the forehead wasn’t enough to undo more than thirty years of solid dislike.  Still, he maintains that he would’ve warmed up eventually if Punk hadn’t decided straight off the bat that Dean was public enemy number one.

Frankly, if it had been up to him, the thing would never have made it past the front door, but between Sam and Cas, Dean never stood a chance.

~*~

_It’s a damp and chilly day in October and after nearly a week of rain everything around the bunker is sopping wet.  But for Cas’s super-human hearing, the tiny kitten’s cries likely would’ve gone unnoticed among the sounds of dripping water and irascible birds commenting on the weather.  As it is, though, the three of them have scarcely stepped out of the car before Cas is frowning, tilting his head to one side._

_“Do you hear that?” He demands.  Sam and Dean exchange a glance._

_“Hard to say unless you’re more specific,” Dean presses.  Sure, he hears plenty of things, but none of them seem out of the ordinary._

_“Something is crying,” Cas tells him, setting off briskly into the woods surrounding the bunker.  Despite hearing no such thing, both of them follow Cas until he suddenly slows precipitously, turning in a circle.  That’s when Dean hears it too._

_There is indeed something crying.  A tiny, exhausted, hoarse squeaking that’s maybe the most pitiful thing Dean’s ever heard in his fucking life._

_All three of them stand still for a moment, orienting themselves to the sound, and then Cas is again in motion, taking several more steps before he reaches down and plucks a tiny, filthy, squirming thing from a pile of sopping leaves._

_“Huh,” Dean says, stepping closer (but not too close) to peer down at the little thing shivering in Cas’s hand, “I wonder how the hell a kitten that young ended up alone out here.”_

_Neither Cas nor Sam respond, and Dean glances up to find both of them gazing at the kitten with facial expressions that look exactly like “Awwwwwww” sounds.  Fucking hell, he knows what that look means._

_“The answer,” he tells them both severely, “is no.  You can bring it inside to warm it up and clean it off, but then we’re taking it to the shelter in town.  It’s too young to be weaned, anyway, it’ll need to be placed with a foster mother.”_

_Neither of them so much as glance at him as they take off toward the bunker, the muddy kitten cradled tenderly against Cas’s chest.  It’s like he didn’t even fucking speak._

_“We are_ not _keeping a fucking cat in the bunker!” Dean insists, stomping after them.  “I’m allergic, for starters, and—”_

_~*~_

_Three hours later, after a warm bath in the sink (apparently plain old Dawn dish soap is safe to use on kittens, or so the internet informed Sam) and a towel still warm from the dryer, the pathetic, filthy, mewling thing has become a somewhat less pathetic, clean thing.  It’s still mewling, though.  Once the dirt was washed away the kitten’s warm orange fur was revealed, and even Dean has to admit that it’s pretty cute now that it doesn’t look like a drowned rat.  Its now-dry fur sticks up in at least seventeen different directions (no wonder it seems to like Cas so much; they have that in common), making it look a lot like what Dean imagines would be the aftereffects of sticking its tiny paw in a socket.  It’s a tabby, but not a kind Dean’s ever seen before, not that he’s some expert on cats or anything.  Sam says it’s called a ‘classic’ tabby.  Apparently the kind Dean’s used to seeing are called ‘mackerel’ tabbies, although why somebody wanted to name a cat coat pattern after a fish, he can’t begin to imagine._

_After much poring over pictures on the internet together (all with the cat cuddled close to Cas’s chest, wrapped in a little fleece blanket), Sam and Cas announce that they think it’s four or five weeks old, which they claim is a little young to be weaned, but that it should be able to survive on a “gruel” they can make out of replacement kitten milk and canned cat food._

_And for the record, Dean never needed or wanted to know_ any _of that shit._

_“That’s great,” Dean tells them, “but unnecessary.  I just checked and the shelter in town is open for another hour and a half.  More than enough time to take it in where they can care for it properl—”  Dean actually takes half a step back as he is suddenly pinned under the weight of two accusatory glares._

_“Don’t be ridiculous,” Sam says hotly, “have you even seen the stats on those shelters?  Most cats taken to shelters are euthanized.  They’re overpopulated and underfunded.”_

_“That’s not—“_

_“And,” Cas continues, “we have more than adequate resources to care for him right here.  We do not lack for room, nor will it be difficult or expensive to obtain the necessary supplies.  The pet store is open until eight.”_

_“No,” Dean tells them flatly, infusing his voice with every ounce of authority he can manage, “absolutely not.  We are_ not _keeping that thing.”_

_“Fine,” Sam says,_ “We _won’t keep it.  Cas and I will.”_

_“That’s not—”_

_“Indeed,” Cas says earnestly, “you will not be in any way inconvenienced.  We will be responsible for all of his upkeep.”_

_“Am I the only one here who remembers that I am fucking_ allergic to cats?!” _Dean demands, throwing both hands in the air, “and I’m sorry, I know you guys really want to keep it, but I can already feel my eyes itching and my throat swelling.  It’s not fair to make me live like that forever, and I think you both damn well know it.”_

_Sam’s shoulders drop as this sinks in.  Even he has to admit that it really wouldn’t be fair for Dean to be miserable so they can have a pet.  For a second he looks about nine again, that day when Dean had to break his heart and tell him he couldn’t keep the dog that followed him home.  Dean has to silently remind himself that he gets to not be made uncomfortable in his own home, and that Sam will get over it eventually.  Cas might be a different story, though.  He has a tendency to get really attached, and—huh._

_When Dean glances over at him, he finds that, rather than looking pitifully dejected, Cas is beaming.  That’s…unexpected._

_“Oh, is_ that _your objection?” He asks, sounding relieved, “that is easily enough attended to.”_

_“If you’re suggesting that I take allergy meds every day, no way.  Those things make m—what are you doing?  Dude, what are you doing?  Don’t bring that thing over here!”_

_Dean scrambles backward as Cas advances on him, about ready to flee the room if Cas insists on getting close to him with that tiny walking allergen, right up until Cas shoots him an incredibly forbidding look._

_“Stop,” he says, and how he can infuse a single word with that much menace Dean will never know, but he sure as fuck stops in his tracks.  It doesn’t stop him from glaring at Cas, who softens slightly._

_“Do you trust me, Dean?”  Usually Dean would think the question was rhetorical, but something tells him Cas is actually asking for real.  Dean frowns at him._

_“Of course, I trust you.  This has nothing to do with—“_

_“Then act like it.  Stay still.”_

_Scowling, Dean stands still as Cas approaches.  He can feel the sneeze building the nearer the blanket-wrapped bundle in Cas’s arms gets.  Asleep or not (and yeah, fine, it’s kind of cute all sacked out like that), it’s still basically a tiny ball of dander.  Just as his eyes squinch shut pre-sneeze, Cas reaches out and taps two fingers lightly against his forehead._

_And the sneeze is gone.  Just like that.  And his throat feels normal.  And his eyes aren’t itching.  And—wait just a fucking second._

_“Did you just_ cure _my allergies?” Dean demands, astonished.  Cas gives him a small smile._

_“Of course.  As you said, it would not be fair for you to be physically uncomfortable due to our new companion.”_

_“I—that’s…but it—that’s not the only…”_

_“I think,” Sam says helpfully, strolling up next to Cas, “the words you’re looking for are ‘thanks, Cas.’”_

_Dean shoots Sam the kind of glare that, in a just world, would make him spontaneously combust.  As it is, the only visible effect it produces is a responding smirk._

_“Thank you, Cas,” Dean says, exercising every ounce of self-control he’s built in nearly four decades to make sure that he sounds at least somewhat sincere in his gratitude.  And to be fair, once they sort out the current clusterfuck, he_ will _be grateful.  At the moment, though, he’s hard-pressed to feel good about the fact that Cas just removed his best and last line of defense against the furry ginger interloper._

_It doesn’t help that Cas is beaming between Dean and the orange puffball in question, facial expression suggesting that between the two of them, he now has everything he could ever want in this world._

_“I…really appreciate it,” Dean says carefully, “and it’s definitely going to make hunting easier.  Going into homes to interview witnesses who had cats was a beast.  But I still think we’re getting ahead of ourselves as far as the cat—“_

_“Punkin,” Cas says earnestly._

_“I—what?”_

_“Punkin,” Cas repeats, “I have decided to call him Punkin.  He is orange, after all, and I am told that this is an abbreviated version of the word ‘Pumpkin’ that is frequently used as an endearment for small, beloved children.  Sam, do you have any objections to this?” Cas turns to invite Sam into the discussion about naming the cat Dean is starting to realize a little despairingly that they’re probably stuck with._

_“Nope,” Sam says, taking a break from the amusement with which he’s witnessing Dean’s discomfort, “I think it’s a great name, Cas.  Good call.”_

_“Cas,” Dean says, trying with increasing desperation to regain control of the situation, “I love your kindness and how much you love all God’s creatures or whatever.  Seriously.  I do.  I love this about you.  I love that you rescued the little guy and bathed it and pored over a hundred different pages on the internet trying to figure out the best thing to feed it.  But we’re hunters.  We leave for days or weeks at a time and we can’t exactly get a pet sitter to come look after him.  And your wings are broken, you can’t just zap back here to feed him and scoop his litter box.  It wouldn’t be fair to the kitten.  Look, I understand how you feel,” that’s a lie, he really doesn’t, because why the fuck would anyone actually want to voluntarily keep_ _one of these things, “but we just can’t keep him.”_

_Cas’s eyes widen in what would be a comical exaggeration of his horrified face if Dean didn’t know perfectly well that it’s sincere.  It’s funny; under most circumstances, Cas is perfectly in control of himself, the situation (regardless of what it is) and Dean.  Now, though, Dean’s self-assured dictator—and sometimes disciplinarian—of a boyfriend is nowhere to be found.  He’s been replaced by a creature so pitiful that he could give the kitten, even in his muddy and sopping wet incarnation, a run for its money._

_Seriously.  This billion-year-old angel of the Lord is so appalled at the notion of not being able to keep the kitten he’s known for all of three hours that he looks like he might actually burst into tears.  He gazes down at the sleeping animal in his arms as if the thing is his own beloved child and someone is about to rip it from his hands forever._

_Fuck it; Dean never stood a chance._

_“I’m not gonna win this one, am I?” He mutters to Sam._

_“Nope,” Sam tells him cheerfully, echoing Dean’s own thoughts, “you never stood a chance.”_

_“You could try not to sound quite so gleeful about it.”_

_“I could,” Sam agrees gleefully, “but really, why waste the energy?”_

_“I ever tell you I begged Mom and Dad to take you back to the hospital after they brought you home?  Told ‘em there must be something wrong with you, nothing was supposed to make that much noise and smell that bad.  I was pissed when they didn’t go for it.  Point is, I got over it, but now I’m thinking I had the right idea.”_

_Dean feels like that was a pretty solid burn but Sam’s already tuned him out in favor of the kitten, which has awoken in Cas’s arms with a tiny squeak of a mewl._

_Dean looks between the sleepily blinking furball and his boyfriend, who is gazing down at ‘Punkin’ with an expression of such heartbroken devotion that Dean kind of wants to commit seppuku for being the one to cause it._

_Yeah, this battle was lost before the first shots were even fired, and Dean definitely never stood a chance._

_He caves._

_“Okay, okay, fine, Cas, you can keep it as long as you promise never to look at me like that ever again.”_

_The transformation in Cas’s face is immediate and dramatic.  He goes from wrecked to rapturously happy so fast it damn near makes Dean’s head spin—especially when the angel in question launches himself across the short distance to plaster his lips against Dean’s._

_Anything else Dean was planning on saying gets swallowed up by Cas, who kisses him with searing intensity for a long moment, then draws back only far enough to prop his forehead against Dean’s._

_“Oh, Dean, you will not regret it, you’ll see.  Sam and I will figure out how to manage when we all go on hunts, and—“_

_Dean actually loses track of what Cas is saying for a minute, because the little dude in Cas’s arms is poking his tiny head up, stretching his neck out to gaze at Dean with rapt interest.  And okay, fine, now that he’s resigned to keeping the thing, he’s gotta admit it’s ridiculously fucking cute.  Cas notices the kitten’s interest after a second and obligingly lifts it up closer to Dean.  It cranes its neck a little further, sniffing at him.  Dean feels the tip of a miniscule nose very lightly brush against his own, and yeah, for about half a second, he’s on the verge of melting into a puddle and becoming at least as smitten with the cat as Sam and Cas are._

_“Hey there, little guy,” Dean murmurs in his softest and most soothing voice._

_That, of course, is when Punkin’s face transforms from sleepy interest to demonic fury, eyes slitting up as it arches its neck and hisses directly at Dean.  Quick as lightning, a tiny paw darts out, and Dean shouts in astonished pain (look, they may be tiny but those little claws are fucking razor sharp) as the deadly weapons on the end of its adorable paws rake furrows in his nose._

_“You little punk!” Dean yelps, jumping back, “what the fuck?”_

_“Dean!” Cas admonishes, scandalized.  He’s clutching the fucking thing to his chest as if Dean just injured it rather than the reverse, “you scared him!”_

_“_ I _scared_ him?” _Dean demands, “that little shit just tried to kill me!”_

_“Nonsense,” Cas says, carefully handing the kitten off to Sam (who starts honest-to-God cooing at it like a fucking mother at her newborn) so he can better deal with Dean, “he is only a baby and this is all very new for him.”_

_“Whatever,” Dean grunts, “I’m going to go find the first aid kit, cause I’m pretty sure the blood your_ baby _just drew is dripping down my nose.”_

_~*~_

_Over the next several weeks, the little monster (who Dean now staunchly insists on calling ‘Punk,’ since his early impression proves to be accurate and he’s at least got plausible deniability on it being a reasonable nickname for ‘Punkin’) settles in and makes himself right at home, much to Dean’s disgust.  He spends the vast majority of his time either happily trotting in Cas’s wake, riding around on Sam’s massive shoulder (get the kid an eye patch and he could be the snuggliest pirate ever), or snoozing in one or the other of their laps._

_As for Dean?  Well, the little shit hasn’t warmed to him any since that first disastrous meeting._

_And he never does._

_~*~_

The memory of their first meeting generally does nothing to endear Punk to Dean under the best of circumstances.

The best of circumstances, these are not.

Dean comes flying around the house for the sixth or seventh time, trying to draw in enough air to get in a really solid yell for Cas when, wonder of wonders, the angel in question steps out of the front door, assesses the situation (which doesn’t take much more than a single glance between a red-faced, panting, sweating Dean and the ginger monstrosity in his wake) and sighs deeply.

“Dean,” he says benignly as Dean shoots past him and rounds the corner yet again, “please stop teasing the cat.”

That alone is damn near enough to bring Dean to a screeching halt, or it would be if stopping didn’t mean certain death. 

Teasing.  _Teasing.  TEASING?!_ Is Cas for fucking real?

_“TEASING?!  ARE YOU FOR FUCKING REAL?  HE’S TRYING TO KILL ME!”_ Dean shrieks, not daring to slow down despite the burn in his legs and his lungs.

“Do not be ridiculous,” Cas says, totally unconcerned, “he is clearly playing.”  One of these days Dean will find out how he’s making himself heard over Dean’s panting, Punk’s growling, and the slap of paws and feet on the hard floor.  At the moment, that’s not exactly his uppermost concern.

_“THAT’S MURDER IN HIS EYES!”_

“No more than usual,” Cas says after a brief pause which Dean presumes he used to check the status of Punk’s eyes the next time the cat came flying past him.

_“AHA,”_ Dean squeals as triumphantly as someone who is on the verge of passing out from exhaustion can, _“SO YOU ADMIT HE’S HOMICIDAL.  AND ALSO,”_ he adds a second later, _“A LITTLE FUCKING HELP HERE?!”_

“If you would simply stop running, the game would lose its appeal to him,” Cas says, starting to sound a little less patient.  Dean has the distinct sense that he’s on the verge of being in the Cas kind of trouble in addition to the mortal peril kind of trouble, and that’s such epic levels of bullshit he doesn’t even know how to process it.  If he ends up getting his ass handed to him because Cas’s sadistic little (okay, _big_ ) monstrosity of a pet is trying to kill him, Dean’s gonna murder both of them.  Twice.

_“IF I STOP RUNNING,”_ Dean bellows back at him, at least grateful that the fact that he’s shrieking means it’s pretty much impossible for Cas to actually hear the ‘fuck you’ in Dean’s voice, _“I’M GONNA BE LUNCH.”_

“There is no need to be melodramatic,” Cas says, sounding distinctly unimpressed, then adds a single sentence that would’ve simplified this conversation a hell of a lot, had he thought to offer it a few minutes ago, “Punkin, please stop antagonizing Dean.”

And just like that, as if Cas flipped a switch, the growling, toothy ginger horror that’s going to haunt Dean’s nightmares for the next several thousand years skids to a halt, turns on his massive heels, and trots calmly over to Cas.  It takes Dean a second to register what’s happened and another to actually force his churning legs to slow to a halt.  He pivots just in time to witness the moment when the cat flops down and blinks lazily at Cas. 

_Seriously?_

Half a second later, a deep thrumming starts up.  It sounds much deeper and its vibrations actually make the floor tremble just a little beneath Dean’s feet, so he can be forgiven for taking a moment to register that his would-be murderer has just started _purring._

_Fucking SERIOUSLY?!_

Dean doesn’t even try to speak yet, in part because he’s bent over with hands on his knees trying desperately to catch his breath, and in part because if he did open his mouth he’d say something so insulting to the cat that Cas would probably bend him over and make him regret it on the spot.  For a guy who is generally quite fair in his application of discipline, Cas gets a mite sensitive about Punkin.  It’s the damnedest thing, but one Dean’s learned not to fuck with.

Once he finally manages to stand back upright, Dean has to bear witness to Cas lightly stroking one miniscule hand over the fur just above Punk’s nose.  The cat is purring so enthusiastically that his exhalations are rhythmically ruffling Cas’s trenchcoat.  It’d be cute if Dean wasn’t still trying to recover from a near-death experience at the paws of the creature now gazing so adoringly at Cas.

“I told you,” Dean finally pants, breath coming a little easier, “he hated me.”

“He does not hate you,” Cas says censoriously, “you are once again being absurd.”

“He tried to kill me!” Dean insists, taking a hasty step back as the cat’s eyes swivel from Cas back over to Dean and narrow slightly. “And he’s thinking about trying again—look at him!”

“He simply wanted to play with you,” Cas says, snapping his fingers and instantly summoning Punk’s attention back to himself.  “He is not used to you being so small.  Perhaps he just did not recognize you.  It is in his nature to hunt moving objects smaller than he is.”

“I don’t see him going after you,” Dean points out impatiently.

“Well, he recognizes my scent,” Cas rebuts, as if this is the most obvious thing in the world.  “He knows it extremely well, after all.  He does live here.”

“Yeah, well, as you may or may not recall, _I fucking live here too.”_ Dean points out, throwing both hands in the air.  Seriously, is he in bizarro-world or something?

“I am aware of that,” Cas says, the warning clear in his voice even if he doesn’t make it explicit, “but you and he have always had a somewhat contentious relationship.”

“But that’s exactly what I was saying!  He hates me!”

“I maintain that is overstating it.  As I said, it is instinctual for him to hunt.  I assume that the moment you realized he was here, you started running, yes?”

Dean frowns a little, trying to remember the sequence of events when Punk made his first appearance.  “Well, yeah, but—“

“Then no wonder.  He did not start chasing until you started running, Dean.  What do you expect?  He is a cat.  You are approximately rat-sized.”

“That’s not—he was totally growling, and…he was gonna…look, you’re missing the—wait.  Wait, shit,” Dean interrupts himself in mid-splutter.  “Rat-sized.  _Where’s Stuart?”_

Oh, God.  Oh, _hell_.  He was right by the door, curled up to nap, and now he’s gone.  What if he ventured under the bed for some reason and Punk spotted him pre-chase?  What if even now his mortally wounded or lifeless body rests in the shadows under Dean’s massive bed?  He’ll never be able to forgive himself if he got one of his new friends killed.  And Stuart saved his life!  Fuck, how the hell could they have forgotten about the fucking cat?  They should’ve warned Stuart, they should’ve made him… _wait, what?_

Dean’s musings about his own culpability in the murder of his friend are interrupted by the timely appearance of the friend in question as Stuart comes trotting out from beneath the bed, looking entirely whole and in one piece.

For now.

Punk clearly hasn’t spotted him yet, which means if he flees fast enough, the rat can probably get somewhere safe before Punk can get to him.  “Stuart, man, you gotta run,” Dean calls, quickly shifting his gaze between cat and rat.

Stuart ignores Dean entirely (seriously, it’s like he’s fucking talking to himself half the time), instead making directly for the vibrating ginger mountain laid out in front of Cas.  Jesus, the rat must have a death wish.

One of Punk’s ears swivels toward the approaching rat, tail flicking lazily as he starts to turn his head toward Stuart. Dean is cringing already, teeth clenched and eyes screwed up in anticipation of the forthcoming bloodbath, which is probably why his jaw damn near hits the floor (shit, it’s not like it has far to go at this point, considering how low to the ground he is) when, at the sight of Stuart, the cat’s purrs intensify a notch.  A moment later, Punkin executes that little move all cats seem to have in their arsenal of going completely boneless, neatly flopping over onto his side with a whoosh of air that sends Cas’s trenchcoat blowing and dries some of the sweat on Dean’s face.

“No way,” Dean mutters to himself, eyes bugging out a little as Stuart, totally undaunted by the sudden movements, makes his way over to Punk and _literally squirms his way under one of his front legs to lie down._  “No fucking _way.”_

Not to be outdone, Punk immediately tugs the rat close against his furry belly, and about thirty seconds after Dean was completely certain that Stuart had been murdered at the hands of a vicious killer of a cat, he finds himself watching as the animals in question fucking _spoon_ with each other.

“Really?” Dean demands of Stuart rhetorically, “not even you’re an ally?  Jesus.  Fine, I see how it is.  Just go ahead and spit on our many…hours of friendship.”

Okay, so Cas might actually have a point about the melodrama.  Just a little.

There’s a moment of silence and then Cas snorts loudly—not a sound Dean generally hears from him.  He swivels toward the angel, brows shooting up in silent question.

“Stuart notes that, while he is certainly a friend and ally to you, his friendship with Punkin is of much longer standing.  Apparently they have maintained cordial acquaintance for a number of months, and Stuart is the one who informed Punk that there had been a magical mishap and he perhaps ought to check on us.”

“Oh, gee,” Dean says, infusing the words with the maximum amount of sarcasm it’s possible to pack into them, “how kind of you, Stuart.  Really.  Much appreciated.”

_“Manners,”_ Cas hisses, eyes narrowing at Dean, who discovers that he is literally grinding his teeth.

“Uh huh,” he says, not responding to the implied threat because, at the moment, ignoring it is a hell of a lot less likely to be hazardous to his ass than replying with what he wants to say, “well on that note, while all of you enjoy your blissful reunion, I’m gonna go inside.”

_“Dean,”_ Cas says warningly, transmitting a whole universe of meaning in a single syllable as Dean stalks past him and through the open door of the house.

“No, really,” Dean says, honestly trying his best to control his snark level, with mixed results, “I’ve gotta go wash up.  I think I might have pissed myself while your pal there was _playing_ with me.”  He follows this up by closing the door firmly in Cas’s face.

It’s probably not the single best getting-the-last-word moment of Dean’s life, he reflects as he clambers up the stairs, but sometimes you gotta work with what you’ve got.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As it happens, Punkin is based on a very real cat I've known for ten years now (whose nickname is indeed Punk), and he is way cooler than Dean makes him sound. If you guys ask nicely, I might even post a picture of him in the comments so you can envision our story's Punk. Setting that aside...
> 
> You know, for a chapter I've had planned nearly since I started on Down to Size, this one was a lot harder to write than I expected. Or possibly I just kept getting distracted when I would sit down to--oh hey look, a squirrel!
> 
> ...anyway. I'm gonna be straight up with you guys; this brings me to the conclusion of the Things That Must Happen list I had in my head when I started writing DtS--with one exception, which is that I definitely know how it ends. I attempt never to start a story without having an ending planned out, because I refuse to be the writer who leaves y'all hanging with a permanently unfinished WIP. With all that in mind, at this point I can guarantee you at least two more chapters, but I won't promise anything more than that. If I get OMGIDEAS, for all I know this thing could drag for another 50K words or more (for those of you that remember Snowbound, Chuck help us, I'm sure you're laughing at my promises of an imminent ending), but I wouldn't hang your hat on it.
> 
> Thanks for staying with me as we (potentially) start wrapping this baby up!
> 
> Come find me on [tumblr](http://kreweofimp.tumblr.com), I love hearing from y'all and I'm generally not a jerk!


	12. Above Reproach

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which everyone has a line in the sand. This is Dean's.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know many of you had some serious concerns at the conclusion of the last chapter. I'll be interested to hear your thoughts on how things play out. Heads' up for a chapter that is not particularly light-hearted and deals with some heavy topics (but as always, there's still a few giggles to be found in there).
> 
> EDITED TO ADD: Holy crap I'm a jerk. Major, major thanks and recognition go out to [Deadmockingbirds](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Deadmockingbirds/pseuds/Deadmockingbirds), without whose thoughts, support, and ideas this chapter might never have made it out of limbo. You're the best, Mock! (and again, if you haven't done so yet, go read her stuff. I recommend starting with Big Daddy Dean if you're reasonably new to Domestic Discipline and are finding it interesting)

The strength of Dean’s righteous fury carries him up the stairs and into the bedroom, buoying him and preventing him from really processing just exactly what he’s done for at least a solid five minutes.

But then it hits him. 

He just slammed a door in Cas’s face.  He just _slammed a door in Castiel’s face._ Right after mouthing off to him, ignoring clear warnings to adjust his attitude, shit-talking his beloved _cat,_ and being arguably rude to Stuart—something Cas definitely doesn’t approve of.

It’s not the first time Dean’s slammed a door on Cas.  He regretted the hell out of it the first time, and vowed (with an extremely sore backside and tears drying on his cheeks) that he would never do it again.  See, it’s a gesture that manages to be rude, disrespectful, _and_ dismissive—all things that Cas dislikes on their own, and absolutely cannot abide in concert.  Cas is all about addressing issues calmly and maturely, and not at all a fan of temper tantrums—which, at least in the angel’s eyes, this will definitely qualify as.

Dean is _so fucked._

At this realization, his stomach clenches with familiar dread—but this time a piece of the puzzle is missing, an indefinable _something_ that keeps him coming back, keeps him asking for a punishment even when the last thing he wants is to get his ass blistered.  The dread of knowing he’s earned a spanking (a serious one, not just a reminder or a little one for a minor offense) is generally tempered with this feeling of…hell, Dean doesn’t really know what it is.  Safety?  Security?  It’s some of that, yes, but there’s more to it than that.  It’s the sense that Cas _has_ him.  That Cas is his safety net, his rock.  That someone—that _he—_ loves Dean enough to hold him accountable for the shitty things he does and says.

There’s something about that feeling that Dean craves, that he has come to need.  Maybe he always needed it and just didn’t know it because it wasn’t really something he’d ever had.  There’s something about that feeling that makes the pain of a well-spanked ass not just worth it but somehow _necessary._ Something about being turned over Cas’s knee with his backside bared that settles him, that warms him—internally, not just through the seat of his pants. 

That feeling—that feeling Dean doesn’t have a name for?  It’s critical.  And, maybe even more than the ways in which Dean has demonstrably become a more functional human being since they started this thing, it’s why Dean’s not just willing but grateful to be in this weird-ass relationship.

And now it’s nowhere to be found.

Its absence is a new development that Dean doesn’t much like, especially since he’s pretty damn sure he’s going to hear Cas’s heavy footfalls on the ridiculously pink plastic stairs any second now.  That feeling is what turns this relationship from something that probably _could_ be abuse into something that’s very much not.  It’s the difference between justice and vengeance, the difference between reluctantly accepting and being forced.  It’s the difference between “I may not want this but I know I need it” and “don’t fucking touch me.”

That feeling is _everything._

Without it, Dean can’t ask for a punishment.  Well—he _could._ He could speak the words, maybe even make it sound semi-convincing, but he won’t mean them, and if Cas goes ahead and delivers one anyway, Dean will resent him for—shit, probably forever.

The more he thinks about it, though, the more Dean thinks he’s got it a little twisted around in his head.  It’s not that he can’t ask to be punished because the feeling is absent.  It’s that the feeling is absent because he can’t ask to be punished.  And he can’t ask to be punished because _he doesn’t goddamn well deserve to be._

Oh.  There it is.

For a few breath-stealing moments, the dread so eclipsed his anger that Dean damn near forgot how pissed off he is—but it’s still there, filling up the space in which another familiar emotion would generally be settling any time that he knows he’s really in for it.

Guilt.  What’s missing is guilt.

Dean knows he was sarcastic and snide and probably kind of rude, yeah.  He was disrespectful, yeah.  That’s not in dispute.  And he knows those aren’t behaviors that Cas tolerates.  He violated more than one of the rules Cas has for him, and he doesn’t feel the tiniest scrap guilty because what it ultimately comes down to is that Cas violated a way bigger one.  Maybe this one is a little less clearly laid out, and it’s certainly not tied to the promise of a red ass (Dean does not punish Cas.  Cas punishes Dean.  That’s just how it works), but it’s the foundation on which this whole thing rests.

He needs to be able to trust Cas to always have his best interests at heart.  That’s what it comes down to.  Maybe it sounds weird or selfish, but what makes this relationship work is the fact that Dean is Cas’s first priority.  Cas has never once punished Dean without Dean’s welfare uppermost in his mind, and the sticking point here (or maybe one of many sticking points) is that if Cas actually follows through on beating Dean’s ass for this, it won’t be because he wants Dean to be the best version of himself that he can be.  It’ll be because he’s annoyed.  It’ll be because he’s got a blind spot a mile wide when it comes to Punk.  It’ll be because somehow that fucking demon in cat form is more worthy of respect in Cas’s eyes than _Dean_ is.

Dean’s been dancing around that thought since before he slammed the door in Cas’s face, but this is the first time he’s looked directly at it.  Now it slams into him with all the force of a punch to the gut, and Dean actually doubles over, curling protectively inward as if to shield himself against the very idea.  It hurts in a way no actual punch to the gut ever has.  It hurts in a way no spanking ever has.  It hurts in a way that makes it hard to breathe, hard to think, and Dean (who has been pacing back and forth across the room restlessly) finds himself sliding to the floor to curl into a ball with his knees to his chest in a gesture that Cas, he reflects bitterly, would probably call _melodramatic._

The thought makes tears threaten and Dean dashes them away angrily with the back of one hand, refusing to give in to the bone-deep hurt that threatens to overtake him.  He doesn’t need to melt down, he needs a fucking strategy.  Cas is going to walk through that door any second now with his spanking eyes on, and if Dean doesn’t figure out how to lay out succinctly and calmly why he doesn’t think a punishment is fair, the situation is just going to get exponentially worse.

Dean is a lot of things and has some pretty decent qualities, but eloquence has never really been one of them.  Turning words into works of art is much more in Sam’s wheelhouse, and Dean already kind of suspects that any attempt he makes to explain his position to Cas is going to be a disaster.  He can already see it; Cas will assume that Dean is refusing to take responsibility for his actions and will take it as further evidence that Dean is immature and unreasonable about the cat.  He’ll be angrier and more disappointed than he already is, and Dean—well, he’ll end up ping-ponging back and forth between snarkily resentful and withdrawn.  Cas will expect Dean to eventually give in, as he has every other time he’s refused to ask for a punishment initially (which only happened a couple times very early on, to be fair).  Either Dean will eventually give in and never stop resenting Cas for it, or he won’t, and the foundation of their relationship—that Dean _chose_ this way of doing things—will crumble.

And yeah, maybe he’s catastrophizing, but it really does kind of feel like the end of the world when the probable future plays out in Dean’s mind.

Dean is so caught up in his misery that it takes him some time to realize what’s happening—or, more accurately, not happening. 

Cas hasn’t come inside.

Dean expected the angel to be after him in under thirty seconds—maybe a little longer if he wanted to apologize to Stuart and his beloved _Punk_ for Dean’s behavior or something.  Certainly no more than five minutes. 

Dean’s watch isn’t working (it didn’t respond well to being downsized) but his internal clock is generally pretty spot on, and it tells him that nigh on forty-five minutes have passed while he’s been ruminating.  And that?  That is...unsettling, because it could mean a whole world of things, only a few of which Dean has any real read on.

It’s possible that Cas is even angrier than Dean realized, and he’s been taking some time to cool down the way he did before punishing Dean for going AWOL yesterday.  Maybe he’s busy MacGyvering some new and horrible improvised implement to punish Dean with.  Or it could be something else altogether.  Maybe he’s just plain letting Dean stew in his own juices and ‘think about what he’s done.’  Whatever’s going on, the uncertainty is incredibly unnerving.  The waiting is raising Dean’s anxiety to even greater heights, and if he wasn’t still terrified that the ginger monstrosity outside the house is going to eat him, he might actually be venturing back downstairs to see what the damn hold-up is.  He’s obviously not exactly anxious to be punished (and he’s still not planning on asking for it), but he can’t deal with wondering what the hell is holding Cas up on top of everything else.

It’s not like he’s looking forward to the forthcoming confrontation; quite the contrary, he’s dreading the hell out of it, but the only thing worse than going through a dreaded experience is having to dread it for even longer ahead of time.

Dean’s just about decided that he’s gonna have to stick his head out the window and demand to know what the hell is going on when the sound of the front door opening and closing echoes up the stairs—and if he thought he was on edge before, that simple noise takes him to a whole new level.

The anger and hurt all roar screaming back to life (which is kind of impressive considering that they’d never died to begin with) and the sound of measured footfalls on the stairs sends Dean’s heart into his throat, ratcheting the anxiety up from dread into something distressingly close to actual fear.  What if Cas doesn’t even give him time to speak in his own defense?  What if he’s so upset that he doesn’t wait for Dean to ask?  This won’t be the first time a dispute over the cat has led to Dean having a sore ass, and Cas has never been slow on the draw before.  Granted, none of those times have been what Cas would term a Serious Punishment (not like Dean strongly suspects Cas will think he has coming to him now), but still. 

Before he quite knows what he’s doing, Dean is on his feet backed against the far wall opposite the door.  It makes him feel like he’s cowering, and something about that, something about the idea that a cat and a pissed off angel have reduced Dean Fucking Winchester, legendary hunter, to this?  Well, it makes him _furious._

Dean can hear every one of Cas’s footsteps as he reaches the top of the stairs and comes down the hall to the bedroom, and he half-wonders whether Cas is intentionally making extra noise in order to increase the tension and make Dean crumble faster.

He doesn’t like that thought.  The thought that Cas, his boyfriend, his lover, his angel, might be performing that kind of…of _psychological warfare_ sits uncomfortably on him atop an already impressive pile of roiling emotions, and it turns out that’s the straw that breaks the hunter’s back.

The second the familiar silhouette appears, Dean finds that he is standing ramrod straight, feet planted solidly and hands clenched into fists at his sides.  Cas pauses in the doorway, taking in Dean’s stance, then opens his mouth to speak—but Dean beats him to it.

“No,” he says simply, kind of impressed by how _solid_ his voice sounds.  _“No._ I’m not asking you to punish me for this.  I don’t care.  I’m not doing it.  Not now and not ever.”

Cas, whose mouth was still open, pauses for a moment.  His eyes rake Dean from tip to toe, expression unreadable, and Dean has to fight not to start squirming under the steady gaze.  The silence spins out for a few seconds as Cas continues to watch Dean thoughtfully.  Dean suspects that Cas is reading him, weighing something indefinable and coming to some kind of decision.  If ever there was a moment Dean wishes he could read minds, it’s this one, in the seconds before Cas finally speaks, his voice neutral and as unreadable as his expression.  “I am listening,” the angel tells him, and just like that, the floodgates break.

“You can think it’s ridiculous and melodramatic all you like,” Dean tells him, “but I was in legitimate fucking fear for my life out there.  A creature ten times my size who, I don’t care what you say, has always hated me was _chasing me._ You said it yourself, he’s used to hunting things my size, and you weren’t there when it started, okay?  He was hunting me.  I saw his eyes.  I heard him growl.  That thing was either coming to kill me or at the very fucking least wanted me to think he was, and you know what’s the worst part?  The absolute _worst part?_ You couldn’t be bothered to give two fucks.  You didn’t care.  I’m not gonna say you didn’t care that my life was in danger, cause you obviously don’t think it was, but you didn’t care that _I_ thought my life was in danger.” 

Dean pauses to catch in a breath and Cas opens his mouth as if to respond, but Dean is faster, cutting him off, not quite shouting but definitely not just talking because he is furious and he is injured to his core and, respect and appropriate tones of voice be damned, Cas needs to _understand_.  _“I am not finished._ Look, the way our—relationship, the way “us” is supposed to work is that we respect each other.  The _only_ way this thing we’re doing works is if we respect each other.  And yeah, maybe I was rude and disrespectful to you out there, but you disrespected me first, and a hell of a lot worse.  I’m talking bone-deep disrespect, couldn’t be bothered to care that the guy you’ve sworn to love and protect was petrified, more focused on how _mannerly_ I was being than the fact that I thought I was about to be murdered kind of disrespect. 

“I snarked at you and Stuart and slammed a door in your face, yeah, but you basically laughed in mine, and only one of us was honestly terrified at the time.  So this is my line in the goddamn sand.  I’m not asking you to punish me for this.  I’m not _letting_ you punish me for this.  And we both know you could hold me down and do it anyway without breaking a sweat, but I have to believe that’s not a line you’re willing to cross.  I’m not taking a punishment for this, Cas, and if that’s a deal-breaker than I guess this is o—over.”

It’s only as he wraps up his impassioned speech that Dean becomes aware that there are tears steadily leaking from his eyes, trickling unheeded and unhindered down his cheeks.  His breath is as rapid and unsteady as if he just now finished running from the cat rather than an hour ago, and his fingers are clenched so tightly that he can feel his nails digging half-moons into the meat of his palms, but by God he got through it.  He said what he needed to say, and now the ball is in Cas’s court—a Cas who continues to watch Dean, his brows knitted into a solid line.  Those brilliant blue eyes search Dean’s face for a long moment before he breaks his stillness, finally stepping out of the doorway and into the room proper.

He makes directly for Dean, and the stress of the last hour combined with the fact that Cas has yet to speak a single word in response to Dean’s declaration combines to ramp up the tension to a breaking point.  In the future Dean will never quite be able to forgive himself for it, but he actually flinches just a little.  The motion is so small it would likely be damn near imperceptible to the human eye, but the eyes on Dean right now are not human.

Cas freezes as a flash of something that looks a hell of a lot like pain goes through his eyes, there and gone in a split second, so fast Dean could easily have been imagining it.  The angel extends a slow hand toward Dean and speaks quietly, as if gentling a terrified and wounded animal.  “Dean,” he says, “Do you trust me?”

The simple question brings Dean up short, because the answer is so much more complicated than it was just two hours ago, and that knowledge stings.  He hisses out a breath, drops his head between his shoulders for a moment, then lifts it back up to look at Cas, and this time he is certain he sees pain reflected back at him.  He cannot abide that pain, wants desperately to do something to make it stop—but he wants to be honest more, so he answers the question with a question.  “Should I?” he asks, voice breaking, and Cas’s expression, generally so well-controlled, breaks apart to reveal a depth of misery at least as profound as Dean’s.

“Oh, Dean,” Cas says, and when he crosses the remaining inches between them to gather Dean into his arms, Dean doesn’t recoil.  Instead he finds himself melting into the embrace, burying his face in the solid, familiar shoulder, breathing in the scent of safety, of love, of _home._   “Oh, my boy.  I did not come in here to punish you.  I came in here to apologize to you.”

Oh.  That’s— _oh._ Well, shit.  Dean goes still despite the tears still leaking from his eyes and into Cas’s trenchcoat.  Cas came in to apologize to him and Dean came at him ready for battle, assuming the worst.  That was— “Stop,” Cas says, but there is such compassion in his voice, such gentleness to the order.  “Stop second-guessing yourself.  You had every right to mistrust my motives, every right to stick up for yourself and speak your mind.  I _never_ want you to unquestioningly accept a punishment that you feel is truly unjust.  I would never ask that of you.”

Dean’s not entirely sure how exactly it happens, but a moment or two later finds Cas seated on the bed, Dean curled in his lap and cradled tenderly in his arms.  “You told me your thoughts—quite eloquently, I might add,” Cas notes, and the hint of pride in his voice breaks Dean apart anew, because it speaks so clearly of all the things that are and have always been so _right_ about this relationship.  Speaks to the fact that Cas really doesn’t want Dean to be a mindlessly obedient drone.  Dean’s always known this, of course, but left to his own devices to stew for the past hour, his mind has taken him to some very dark places.  “Now if you will indulge me, I would like to begin to make amends.  Will you listen?”

Just the fact that he is seeking Dean’s consent even to say his piece says a lot about how seriously Cas is taking his own breach of trust.  It’s not just that he’s not going to try to punish Dean—he obviously wants it to be completely clear that he doesn’t want to force or coerce Dean into anything, even listening.  The realization makes a few of the webbed cracks inside Dean silently start to knit back together.  His voice is a little watery when he speaks, but firm enough that Cas knows he means it.  “Always,” he promises, and Cas squeezes him a little tighter, presses a kiss to the top of his head.

“You have said for some time,” Cas begins, “that I have a blind spot when it comes to Punkin.  Obviously, this has been a source of some contention between us, and it would not be inaccurate to say that I have become accustomed to taking your claims that he hates you or wishes you ill with a grain of salt.  For that alone I owe you an apology.  I know that you were not anxious to adopt him in the first place, but you gave in graciously and allowed Sam and I to keep him, although you and he have never gotten on well.  Despite the fact that he has been somewhat antagonistic toward you—“ at this Dean has to stifle a snort because holy understatements, “—okay, quite antagonistic,” Cas amends, “you have never been cruel to him nor have you seriously suggested that he should be rehomed.”

Dean recoils a little.  “I would never hurt an animal that wasn’t a real threat to my life, and whatever I think of that little shi—of _Punk,”_ he corrects himself, and Cas chuckles.

“I think that at least for the duration of this conversation, you need not censor yourself with respect to him.”

“Okay then, whatever I think of that little shit, once we decided to keep him this became his home and we became his family.  You and Sam love him and we’re the only family he’s ever really known.  Getting a pet is for keeps.”  He shrugs slightly and Cas squeezes him a little tighter.  Dean can hear the smile in his voice when he speaks.

“One of so many things I love about you, Dean.  When I set aside my own baggage and look back on your relationship with him, it is clear that he has never endeared himself to you and that this has come between us on more than one occasion (albeit never as catastrophically it did today), but it still would never have occurred to you to make me choose.”  Dean shrugs a little, embarrassed, and Cas goes on.  “But I digress.  The point I am making is that you have done your best to accommodate his presence here despite many months of solid dislike on both sides, and I have never taken the time to recognize the selflessness of this.  I am, as you have noted, quite partial to him and he has never been anything less than affectionate and loving to me.  I suspect now that he may have saved much of his antagonizing of you for times when I wasn’t in the immediate vicinity, and that eventually you just stopped telling me about it as my consistent dismissiveness was too frustrating for you and resulted in too much contentiousness between you and I.  I know that more than once I have held you accountable for speaking disrespectfully or walking out on conversations with me regarding Punk’s behavior, and for that I feel I must also beg your forgiveness.  I have no one to blame but myself, that today you felt you needed to defend yourself against the possibility of an unfair punishment.”

“It’s not—yeah, I’ve gotten spanked a time or two after we argued about Punk, but it’s not like before now I—“

“Yes, any discipline I applied has been reasonably mild, but that does not downplay the seriousness of the fact that I was punishing you without truly _listening_ to you.  There are times when you become disrespectful and sarcastic without cause, and I will never hesitate to hold you to account for such, but if I fail to take your concerns seriously, dismiss them, or otherwise demonstrate that I am unwilling to listen, I have only myself to blame if you attempt to make yourself heard in ways I deem less acceptable.”

Dean is left a little speechless at just how well Cas seems to grasping the issue—not only what just happened but the entire dynamic that’s led up to today’s clusterfuck.  He feels like he should say something but he doesn’t have half a clue what he might say, so instead he just nestles closer to Cas, pressing a kiss against his chest.  Just that declaration was enough to earn Dean’s absolution, but he can tell that Cas isn’t done atoning yet.

“Today, you were extraordinarily clear about what you were experiencing; that you were in fear for your life,” Cas goes on, “and in fact you openly asked for my help.  I dismissed your fear as ‘absurd,’ took my time in offering any assistance, and when I finally did step in, I did so with poor grace and no acknowledgement of your perfectly valid feelings about an extremely trying experience.  This would be a grave breach of trust in any relationship, but in one in which you put your safety and welfare in my hands, in which you have put a far greater trust in me than any traditional relationship can claim to have—it is simply unconscionable.”  There’s a slight catch in Cas’s voice, telling Dean that however perfectly put together he seems, the angel is internally flaying himself alive for his actions—and his inaction.  This suspicion is born out when Dean hears Cas drag in a harsh breath as though to steel himself before forging recklessly ahead.  “You would be well within your rights to walk away from me and never look back,” Cas tells him, and Dean inhales sharply as he feels something wet drip from Cas’s chin onto his forehead.

“Oh, Cas, no,” he says, pulling back enough that they can fully look at each other.  As expected, Cas’s eyes are red and watery, his jaw set in a grim line.  “I’m not walking away from you.  It would take a hell of a lot more than this to make me throw away everything we’ve got.  Look, you’re only—well, fine, you’re not _human,_ but you’re as fallible as the rest of us.  You get to be.  I don’t expect you to be perfect, I just expect you to figure out where you’ve screwed up and clean up your messes.  And you do.”

Cas gifts him with a faint smile, but there’s still a terrible sadness in his eyes.  As disappointed, hurt, and angry as Dean was (and it’s amazing how fast the lion’s share of it seems to have evaporated in the face of a Cas who finally _gets it),_ it’s pretty clear that Cas is at least twice as disappointed and angry with himself.  “That is very kind of you, Dean,” he says, “but it should not require being taken to task by Stuart for me to recognize when I am failing you.”

Dean is suddenly and unexpectedly brought up short, because he’s pretty goddamn sure Cas just admitted that he got called out by a rat, and the thought is so utterly ridiculous that for half a second he thinks he might burst into totally inappropriate laughter.  He has to bite the inside of his cheek for a second until he’s sure he’s got the urge under control before he speaks.  “Okay, what exactly happened out there after I came in?”

“I was ready to come after you,” Cas admits, “but I paused to apologize to Stuart for what I saw as your inappropriate behavior, and he—er, expressed the opinion that perhaps he was not the one I ought to be apologizing to.”

“You can’t leave it at that,” Dean says, unable to control the slight twitching of his lips.  He’s sure Cas has cottoned on to his amusement by now, because his lips twist wryly as he goes on.

“He stated that while he appreciated the apology, he understood why you were on edge, could empathize with your frustration, and he was surprised that I couldn’t do the same.  When I asked for him to expand, he pointed out that whether or not he and I knew that Punkin would not have actually harmed you, clearly you were in honest fear for your life, and I was more concerned with your manners than your terror.  He pointed out that he’d witnessed the kind of relationship you and I have, and that you obviously put a great deal of trust in me.  He reminded me that yesterday, when I was going to punish you, you told him that whatever he heard, you had it coming to you.  He said that at the time he was absolutely floored by the fact that you were willing to submit voluntarily to something as painful as your punishment clearly was, that it took incredible faith in someone to allow them to hurt you, and that I would do well to question whether I was taking that faith for granted and failing to offer even the most basic consideration in return.  He closed out by stating—well, the closest I can come to a direct translation is, ‘that was seriously fucked up.’”

Dean’s jaw is hanging somewhere around his knees by now, and he makes a note to figure out what Stuart’s favorite food is and provide him with a huge amount of it.  “Um,” he says eloquently, “wow.”

“Suffice it to say that Stuart held a mirror up to my own behavior, and I greatly disliked what I saw.”

“That can’t have taken an hour, though, and you—“

“Kept you waiting an unforgivably long time, tying yourself into knots.  I am so sorry, Dean.  After Stuart was finished with me—and I should likely mention that if you have never seen a rat look self-righteous before, it’s an experience you ought to have—I went to have a chat with Punkin.”

Dean blinks once, then again, trying to decide whether he misheard.  “You…what, now?”

“Yes, Dean,” Cas says, a slight smile tugging at his lips, “Stuart’s stern scolding convinced me that it was wrong of me to hold you to standards of behavior when I was expecting very little in return from Punkin.”

“What did you say—no, wait, what did _he_ say?”

Cas blinks at Dean in surprise.  “He said nothing that I could understand, of course.”

“You—wait, what?  I thought you could understand every creature on the planet.”

“And so I can.  Except for cats.”

“I’m…not following.”

“Most animals share a common tongue, such as it is.  A sort of patois that they all speak and understand so that they can communicate with each other relatively easily.  Except for cats.  Nobody speaks cat-language.  They wouldn’t like it.”

Dean stares at Cas for a moment, jaw hanging open a millimeter or two.  “You’re telling me that cats—“

“Have adopted a language specific only to them, and refuse to speak the common patois despite understanding it perfectly well?  Yes.”

“That’s…that’s just incredibly…”

“Cat.  It is incredibly cat.”

“Pretty much,” Dean concludes, again fighting the urge to break into helpless giggles.  “Okay, so Punk didn’t say anything back to you, but what’d you tell _him?”_

“I told him that I had been taking far too permissive a stance with respect to his treatment of you and that while I recognized that his actions earlier had been in fun—for him,” Cas adds hastily as Dean’s brows knit in consternation, “obviously, not for you—given that he was willing to stop his pursuit of you at my request, it is also quite clear that he _did_ intend for you to be in fear for your life.  I told him that this was completely unacceptable.  I pointed out that at the beginning of his life, when he was very small and vulnerable, you were willing to open your home and your life to him despite grave misgivings, and that he has never answered this with anything but disdain and insult.  I told him that you would have been well within your rights to request that we find him a new home some time ago, given his continued antagonism of you, but that you have never done so.  I told him that you are the partner I share my life with, you will always be my first priority, and that his inability to provide you with the bare minimum respect demonstrates a lack of respect for me as well.  I told him that I have allowed him to drive a wedge between you and I, and that while this is my fault, it is hurtful to me that he seems to take pleasure in having done so.  I told him that I am disappointed in him, that I expect better of him, and that I will be watching very closely to determine whether he is continuing to work at making you feel uncomfortable in your own home in a way that you would never have considered doing to him.”

“I don’t know about all that,” Dean allows.  “After the fifth time in a row he peed on my side of the bed, you did have to stop me from going and peeing on _his_ bed.”

Cas’s lips twitch hard, just once.  “Ah, yes.  I did not mention that.  It will remain our little secret.”

“Cas,” Dean says, then breaks off, unsure how to verbalize how full his heart is at this moment, “I—tha—“

“Please, Dean, do not thank me for doing the bare minimum I ought to have done months ago.  It is the very least you deserve.”

Dean wouldn’t really have the words to thank him properly anyway so he settles for leaning in and pressing his lips against Cas’s. 

There is a moment in which Cas hesitates, as if it’s hard for him to believe he gets to have this, and when he does respond, the kiss bears none of the usual easy dominance and control he generally wields without even thinking about it.  The kiss is soft and sweet—something that’s hardly new for them—but Cas is clearly letting Dean define the shape of it.

And maybe that should feel good, maybe that should be a relief…but it’s _not._ It feels wrong.  It feels unsettling.  It feels weird—but not half as weird as the words that tumble out of Dean’s mouth without his prior permission the second their lips disengage.

“Now can you spank me?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So there you have it. I know many of you were really worried about Dean last chapter and felt very strongly that Cas was being really unfair. I agree, and it turns out so did Cas once a certain rat friend offered a shift in perspective. I hope this makes y'all feel better, and please know how much it warmed my heart to see how protective my readers feel of Dean. I promise, he's in good hands with Cas.
> 
> I also want to thank you all for being patient between updates. I know you've had to wait some time--my other WIP, [No Haven in this World](http://archiveofourown.org/series/481981) (link is to the entire series it's a part of; if you haven't read it, start with Half the Naked Distance) was very overdue for some attention, and I needed to focus on that for a bit. From here on out I anticipate bouncing back and forth between updating the two pretty smoothly--but as we've established more than once, my predictions have a tendency to be wildly inaccurate. You probably shouldn't take my word on pretty much anything. Except this:
> 
> Next chapter is *definitely* not the final chapter of DtS. I still think we're likely closer to the end than the beginning (but again, I could be wrong), but there's more of this story to tell than I can fit in one chapter alone.
> 
> And in other news, my DCBB with [Dangerousnotbroken](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Dangerousnotbroken/pseuds/Dangerousnotbroken), Five Days in May, is now being illustrated by the marvelous [OnceUponADestiel](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Jems_of_Grace/pseuds/OnceUponADestiel), and will be posted on October 28th. Look for it then!
> 
> And finally, many of you have asked for a picture of the real Punk. Your wish is my command; check out the comments to this chapter (and while you're at it, leave your own comment)!


	13. Five Inch Hero

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Dean gets what he needs and learns a little bit about how loved he really is in the process.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Endless thanks to my beloved [Dangerousnotbroken](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Dangerousnotbroken/pseuds/Dangerousnotbroken) for cheerleading, beta-reading, and stepping in to ghostwrite a few very critical sentences for me to bump me past my writer's block. 
> 
> The first third or so of this chapter has been finished and waiting since, like, the day after I published the last one (back in SEPTEMBER. I know, I know, I'm sorry). The rest of it just was not interested in being written, but I knew once I got past that tiny block getting in the way of moving forward, I'd have the rest of it in a flash. Turns out I was right, since DNB wrote those few sentences two nights ago and I finished the chapter this afternoon.
> 
> If you missed Down to Size, if you're glad to see it back, you know who to thank!
> 
> I'm so sorry for the long gap, and I hope y'all enjoy our return to the boys' tiny little world. If you're still out there, give me a shout out, drop a comment, make it known. I know I've made y'all wait a long time, but while I was trying to move through the block, it helped to remember that people were waiting for this.
> 
> P.S. if you can figure out exactly which few sentences DNB wrote--and you're the first person to spot 'em--we'll BOTH write you a prompt of your choosing (within REASON). Enjoy the challenge!

“Now can you spank me?”

Dean and Cas both freeze at the words that tumble out of Dean’s mouth.  Dean definitely did not plan on saying them, had not intended to ask for any such thing, but there it is.

“I’m sorry, _what?”_ Cas demands, and Dean pulls back enough for them to look into each other’s eyes.

“I, um, I can’t believe I’m saying this but I sort of think I might need you to spank me?”

“Dean,” Cas says gently, lifting his hands to cup Dean’s face, stroking his thumbs across Dean’s cheekbones in a light caress, “I thought we covered this.  You don’t deserve a punishment for something I pushed you into.  It would not be fair of me to apply one.”

“Maybe not, but listen.  I love that you can admit when you’re wrong and make amends.  I love that you can be gentle with me.  I love that you went to battle for me with the cat you love more than your own life.  I love all of that, but you being uncertain and anxious and at sea?   Honestly, it’s messing with me worse than everything that just happened.  You're my fucking rock and if you crumble I don't have anything to hang onto.”

Cas is silent for a moment, watching him, searching his face—which probably looks a little dumbfounded, since Dean didn’t actually know he was gonna say any of that either.  Now that it’s out, though, it sounds like the truth.  Does he _want_ a spanking?  Not particularly.  But he does _need_ one, and after a moment he can see Cas wrapping his mind around the idea, sorting through it, deciding whether he can get on board.  Dean fully intends to be patient, to give him time to work through it, but once again his mouth has other ideas.

“Okay, look, I can’t believe I’m asking you this any more than you can, and maybe it doesn’t actually make any sense, but I need to know you’re still— _you,_ you’re still my…fuck, I’m not doing a good job of saying this,” he breaks off, frustrated.

“You need to know that I am still in control.  That I can handle whatever situation may arise, that I can still handle _you_ despite both of us knowing that I gravely miscalculated.  In the past, whenever you have made an error that needs accounting, you have not particularly enjoyed the spankings that you’ve earned, but they have restored a sense of equilibrium.  They have left you feeling that all is once again right with the world, and between us.  You’re seeking that feeling now, and know of no faster or simpler way to achieve it.  Is that about right?”  Dean blinks stupidly at Cas for a long moment, trying to figure out how the angel climbed into his head and pulled out the thoughts that he was unable to put into words, fully formed and eloquent.

“That’s—yeah, that’s it exactly.  And I know it’s weird, but—“

“It is _not_ weird.  I have not said that.  I would never say that.  And I would prefer that you stop using such statements to downplay your own perfectly valid needs and emotions.”  Cas’s voice deepens as he says this, a hint of steel coming into his tone, a reminder that he dislikes Dean’s tendency to be self-effacing.  And, shit, just that _tone_ makes Dean feel a little steadier, a little more like the earth is again solid beneath his feet.  It’s further evidence that he’s not wrong about what he needs, no matter how much he’d rather need something like a bubble bath.  When Cas goes on, his voice has softened some, but it doesn’t extinguish the tiny flame his sternness ignited, nor the warmth that spreads from it. “I will always give you what you need, Dean.”

“I know you will,” Dean tells him, and it’s the truth.  Despite the last couple hours, ultimately Cas really does always give Dean what he needs, even when it’s not what he wants.

“I want it to be clear,” Cas says, searching Dean’s face with that characteristic single-minded focus, “that if I thought you were doing this for me alone _,_ the answer would be no.  If I thought you were sacrificing yourself on the altar of proving that you still trust me and that I am still in control, I would not even be considering this.”

“I mean,” Dean says consideringly, “I think that’s probably part of it?  Not that I’m sacrificing myself, I mean, just that it’s important that you do know that I still trust you and—and all that.  But that’s not _why_ I’m doing it, not really.  Believe me when I tell you it’s a selfish request.  The fact that I think maybe you need it too is…not a bonus, really, but maybe just proof that we’re in this together, for the right reasons?”

“You know, for someone who doesn’t believe himself to be eloquent or effective at communicating, you do a remarkable job at seeing to the heart of things,” Cas tells him fondly, making Dean want to squirm a little at the compliment.

“I just—“

“I would think carefully before you say something self-effacing,” Cas says, and his voice is warm but that hint of steel is back underneath it.  And he’s not wrong—Dean probably _was_ going to say something self-deprecating, something he knows perfectly well he’s not supposed to do.  “You have absolutely earned the benefit of the doubt today, especially from yourself.  Remember, you—“

“—shouldn’t talk about myself in a way I wouldn’t talk about somebody else I love.” Dean intones, that particular phrase indelibly etched in his brain thanks to frequent repetition.  Cas has told him this a thousand times, and although Dean often responds to these words with quips about Cas missing his calling as a therapist, it does resonate in a way no other imprecations against putting himself down have.

“Exactly,” Cas tells him, thumbs again sweeping across Dean’s cheekbones tenderly.  “And at the risk of compounding the issue of my recent lack of solidity, if you will, I must ask once more: Dean, are you certain?”

“Completely,” Dean tells him a little ruefully, “although I’m going to write a strongly worded letter to my psyche suggesting in the most emphatic of terms that it work on needing things like chocolate and back massages.”

Cas huffs out a surprised laugh, leaning forward to brush his lips against Dean’s.  “I do adore you.  You know that, don’t you?”

“I do,” Dean assures him, “you never let me forget it.  And it’s—you know it’s mutual.”

“Of course,” Cas confirms before adding, “and I see no reason that you cannot also have chocolate and a back massage at some point today.  Surely you have earned a bit of pampering.”

“If I haven’t yet, I’m about to,” Dean sighs, and Cas slides a hand affectionately through his hair before his face sobers.

“I will not go easy on you, Dean,” he warns, offering one final ‘out’ before it’s too late.

“I know,” Dean tells him honestly, “I’m not sure it would…work, do what it’s supposed to, if you did.  I need you to be my—ack!”

Dean’s attempt to explain something that Cas clearly already gets is cut off when the angel performs a neat and lightning-fast little move and the world suddenly shifts around Dean.  As quickly as he was gathered into Cas’s arms earlier, now he finds himself in a familiar position, draped across strongly muscled thighs with his ass uppermost.  “I am sorry Dean,” Cas says calmly, “I did not intend to interrupt you.  Would you like to finish, or…?”  He trails off, the implication clear; Dean is welcome to finish his thought, and Cas will absolutely listen, but he suspects that Dean has either forgotten or no longer cares about whatever he was going to say.

He’s right, of course.  Whatever it is that Dean was going to say, he’s entirely lost the thread in the mingling of anticipation and dread that is somehow both familiar and comforting.  Already he feels steadier, more centered.  “N-no,” Dean says, voice cracking just a hair, “I’m—I’m good.”

“Indeed,” Cas says, and there is a hint of reverence under his tone that makes Dean want to squirm out of his own skin at the same time that it floods him with warmth, “you _are_ good.  You are my very good boy.  Which is why I want to again clarify that this is not a punishment.”

“I understand.”

“I understand…what?”

Oh, he _does_ understand.  Despite this not being a punishment, Cas is going to hold him to protocol, clearly aware that there is comfort in the ritual, in being held to certain standards of behavior.

“I understand, sir.”

“Mmm, see?  My good boy,” Cas murmurs, pleased, and Dean actually shivers a little at that tone of voice.  Once again, Cas moves faster than Dean can fathom, swiftly divesting Dean of his jeans, exposing his ass and most of his thighs to the air and to Cas’s hands. One of those hands settles lightly on the curve of Dean’s ass, cupping the fullest part and somehow managing to suffuse Dean with a little of the calm that he has been desperately lacking. “And my good boy gets what he asks for.”

Under ordinary circumstances, he and Cas, their relationship, operates as a kind of well-oiled machine.  Whether acting out, bratting off, or even (on occasion) doing as he’s told and being well-behaved, any move Dean makes, Cas easily counters—which kind of makes it sound adversarial, but it’s really not.  They move with all the smoothness of a perfectly choreographed and well-rehearsed dance, instinctively orbiting one another in a way that makes each of them stronger, steadier, and closer to the ideal version of himself.  When something like today happens, it’s as if the machine stutters and grinds to a halt, the dance faltering as the music goes sour, gravity going haywire and knocking them out of orbit.  This—asking for a spanking—it’s Dean’s way of re-establishing equilibrium, and as Cas’s hand smooths lightly but confidently over his frequent canvas, Dean can feel himself start to settle.  He can feel all the little moving parts that make up the machine start groaning back to life, feel the orchestra tuning up their instruments.  This—the universe in which Cas is in charge, in which his guiding (or, frequently, rhythmically slapping) hands are the anchor that keep Dean from floating away—this is how it’s supposed to be.

Dean can tell that Cas feels the moment in which he gives over, in which he truly relaxes back into Cas’s control.  His body goes limp and pliant over the angel’s knees and Cas hums softly in satisfaction.  Dean is expecting that absurdly hard hand to begin falling at any moment, and it takes him a second to process the words that come instead.

“Hands, I think.”  Dean is briefly bewildered.  Hands?  Well, he didn’t think Cas was planning on taking a paddle (or whatever the hell doubles as a paddle when you’re five inches tall) to him, but— “Dean,” Cas says, a hint of steel at the core of his words although there is no true impatience to his tone, “your hands.  Now.”

“Oh.  Oh!  Sorry, sir,” Dean says, finally catching on.  It’s really not necessary—he has no intention of struggling or trying to cover up—but something about the firm order _helps,_ and he feels things recalibrate another couple of degrees as he shifts around until he can bring his hands behind him.  Immediately, a very firm grasp winds around both of his wrists, pinning them easily at the small of his back.  The grip is not punishing or overly tight, but it is entirely unyielding.  Dean knows this, even as he tries to shift his wrists a little, testing.  They don’t move so much as a millimeter, and the knowledge has his body sinking even more loosely into the bed, head turning so he doesn’t end up with a lungful of comforter.

“My very good boy,” Cas praises quietly, and then without further delay the hand that has rested against the curve of Dean’s ass withdraws and returns a good deal less gently.  Dean huffs out a breath, an involuntary reaction to that first swat, and scarcely has time to draw in another before the first smack is followed by a second and then a third.

Cas is unhurried in his approach, but neither is he drawing it out unnecessarily.  He is methodical, leaving exactly the optimum amount of time between swats for Dean to really feel the previous before delivering the next.  The end result, as it always is, is a sting that builds on itself steadily.

As usual, Cas starts off with a warm-up, the smacks quite firm but nothing to write home about.  He’s so skilled at this (he has, after all, had a great deal of practice) that he’s able to manage the ramping up so smoothly and gradually that Dean’s never quite sure how they got from warm-up to the kind of force that has him wincing with each smack, and now is no different.  The leftover sting from this morning’s interlude had faded into indetectability fairly quickly, but Cas reignites it fast enough that it’s clear there was still some underlying tenderness.

“Hmm,” Cas says thoughtfully, his voice low and steady, “there are benefits to taking you to task regularly; it means I am able to reap the benefits of a sound spanking so much more efficiently.  Although, come to think of it, perhaps that’s actually a drawback, as we both know I do find some satisfaction in watching those pretty cheeks wobbling and reddening under my hand.”

“ _Some_ satisfaction?” Dean quips, stifling a grin, and while Cas chuckles, it doesn’t stop him from delivering a particularly intense flurry of swats at the crease of ass and thighs, not pausing until Dean yelps and visibly cringes.

“You may have a point,” Cas concedes, “a great deal of satisfaction, then, my sassy love.”

Dean grimaces a little.  He’s never been a big fan of being referred to as sassy.  Six-year-olds are sassy.  Young women are sassy.  Full-grown late-thirties six-foot-tall men are not sassy.  Of course, when Dean brought this up to Cas, the angel just quirked that signature brow at him and said simply, “when you stop sassing me, I will stop calling you sassy,” and that was that. 

As he so often does, Cas responds to Dean’s unspoken thoughts.  “Yes,” he says, voice somehow managing to be both fond and stern at the same time, “sassy.  Although if you’d prefer, I can go with feisty, mouthy, impertinent, or impudent.”

“I mean,” says Dean, lips twitching irrepressibly, “while you’re busy with synonyms, can you tell me if there’s a word for a guy who’s swallowed a thesaurus?”

“Indeed there is,” Cas says, and lays four of the hardest swats yet across Dean’s upper thighs, “that word is _Sir.”_

“Yessir,” Dean squeaks, finding much to his lack of surprise that he’s started squirming—or trying, anyway.  There’s only so much wiggling one can do when someone with superhuman strength has your wrists pinned behind you and is applying his palm to your posterior with great dedication.

The spanking goes on, the swats coming with increasing rapidity, and the part of Dean’s brain that’s still capable of coherent thought (the rest of it is pretty caught up on “ow”) registers that Cas is pushing for the point at which the combination of physical sensation and emotional intensity overwhelm any illusions Dean has of maintaining manly stoicism.  That’s generally when the tears start, and Cas wasn’t joking when he said he had no intention of going easy on Dean.  He’s aiming for those tears, sensing—as Dean does, albeit somewhat less enthusiastically—that this is the place in which true catharsis will occur.

Dean would’ve figured those tears would be incredibly close to the surface, all things considered, but they stubbornly remain elusive, even as the sting builds, and when Cas realizes that standard methods aren’t getting Dean there as quickly as he would like, he turns to a tried and true trump card.  A firm hand parts Dean’s thighs, earning a wordless whine from Dean that he would be mortified about if he were still capable of mortification at this point.  Cas rumbles an equally wordless warning at the hint of resistance Dean’s muscles put up, and Dean yields, allowing his legs to be spread widely enough that Cas has no trouble applying his no-doubt aching palm to Dean’s inner thighs in a new flurry of rapid-fire smacks.

Dean cries out loudly, his involuntary writhing precisely as ineffective as it always is in this circumstance.  He can feel the very start of moisture gathering in the corners of his eyes, and while he really did have every intention of taking this spanking with good humor and ready acceptance, it’s one thing to decide that while face up and another to stick to such resolutions when the other end is uppermost.  “Cas, sir, _please,”_ he whimpers, not entirely sure what he’s asking for but totally certain Cas will see that he gets it.

“Shhh, I know,” Cas croons quietly to him, the gentleness in his voice a startling juxtaposition to the relentless rise and fall of his hand, which doesn’t so much as pause, and that oddly compelling contrast finally breaks the dam.

The first sob has just rattled loose from Dean’s chest when it happens.

~*~

Really, they both probably should have foreseen this, but they were so wrapped up in one another that any consideration of what was happening outside the house got lost somewhere along the way.  Honestly, what’s most surprising is that Dean’s the one who notices first.

It’s not the sound that tips him off—not initially.  No, the first thing that registers is a slight vibration that shakes the bed.  Maybe it’s that the side of Dean’s face is actually pressed against the mattress, making him more sensitive to the shudder, but he will conclude later that the real explanation is likely a lot simpler than that: Cas is so entirely focused on Dean, on giving him what he needs, on taking him where he needs to go, that he’s tuned out everything that reads as irrelevant to that end.

That metronomic hand continues its rise and fall, which makes it a lot harder for Dean to process this new information, but he’s been a hunter since before he was much of anything else, and he’s spent his life being attuned to any hint of _wrongness._ Early awareness of the odd or inexplicable has saved his and Sam’s lives countless times, and that’s not an easy instinct to turn off.

The tears don’t stop but the audible sobbing (which lasted all of five seconds, maybe) does halt, because the part of Dean that is always on alert has roared to awareness as the bed vibrates again, more noticeably this time.  Along with this comes a faint sound from outside, drifting in through the space where Sam removed a windowpane to allow a phone charger to snake in. 

It’s a scraping sound, a bizarre mix of scratching and scrabbling, and not until the entire house shudders hard enough that Dean hears water slopping out of the sink in the attached bathroom does he get his wits about him enough to alert the oblivious angel.

“Ca—Cas,” he garbles, and when that fails to produce the desired effect, he tries again, louder, if still somewhat muddled by tears, _“Castiel!”_

That does it.  Dean never calls Cas by his full name, and certainly not in mid-spanking.  Cas freezes, hand presumably halfway to another swat, and Dean doesn’t actually have to explain himself, because the house gives its hardest shake yet, and a very loud and outraged squeal breaks the newly established quiet.  Dean couldn’t begin to say how the hell he knows that the sound in question is outraged, but he’s entirely certain of it.

Cas must agree, because a second later his voice breaks out, quiet and emphatic.  “Oh, dear,” he says, his tone some cross between realization and resignation.  “I may have somewhat miscalculated,” he tacks on mildly, and before Dean can ask what he’s talking about, a sharply pointed and rapidly wiggling nose appears outside the missing windowpane, followed immediately by the rest of the furry head it’s attached to.

Dean was not aware that rats could narrow their eyes, but Stuart puts this ignorance to rest with great enthusiasm, glittering eyes slitted as they zero in unerringly on Cas.

“Stuart,” Cas says, voice calm, “it’s not what you—”

The rat’s a lot braver than Dean is, because he has no qualms about interrupting Cas.  Most of the conversation between Cas and Stuart to date (and Jesus fuck what is Dean’s life even, that there’s a _usual_ way in which his multidimensional wavelength of celestial intent of a boyfriend converses with a rat) has been largely inaudible from the rat’s side of things, but not right now.

Right now, Stuart’s squeals are loud enough to pierce Dean’s eardrums and make him cringe—although the fact that Cas’s hand has come to rest lightly against the curve of his throbbing ass may have also had something to do with his wince, and observing this seems to have agitated the rat further.

“Stuart,” Cas tries again, “if you will give me a moment to explain, I—”

More squealing, increasing in pitch and fervor.  Dean’s eardrums are really not crazy about this, but mostly he wishes he had half a clue what was being said, because this is a conversation he would really like to be able to keep track of.

“I _did_ listen to you,” Cas breaks in, voice somewhat impatient, “and this is _not_ a punish—”

The squealing picks up again just as Dean cottons on to the problem.

Stuart must’ve heard the spanking from outside the house and concluded that despite everything, Cas had gone ahead with his intentions to punish Dean.  The rat thinks he’s witnessing a scene of abuse, rather than an asked for and much needed recalibration.

Dean has to take a second to blink rapidly in an effort to banish the prickle of tears that have nothing to do with the sting of his backside, unaccountably moved by Stuart’s defense of him.  Apparently, despite the rapid friendship the rat struck up with Cas, he still feels quite protective of Dean—enough to go up against an actual angel (however pint-sized) on his behalf.  That’s—that’s something.  And—

“Dean,” Cas breaks through Dean’s thoughts quietly as Stuart continues the diatribe Dean can’t translate, “Stuart is under the mistaken impression that I did not absorb anything that he said and decided to—”

“Yeah, no, I figured that out,” Dean interrupts, not wanting Cas to go through the whole explanation, “I got this.”

Dean hears Cas huff out a breath in satisfaction.  Since the rat is clearly disinclined to listen to Cas’s explanations, maybe he’s more likely to hear Dean out.

“Stuart,” Dean says, lifting his head so he can better meet the still narrowed eyes that swivel to rest—a good deal less accusingly—on Dean now.  The insistent squeaks pause, and Dean figures that’s the best opening he’s gonna get.  “Listen, it’s really not what you think.  Cas apologized.  We made up.  He begged forgiveness.  He really does get it.  I _asked_ for this.”

There’s a pause, and then more squeaking as the rat’s eyes shift back to Cas and narrow further.  Cas sighs, then translates for Dean.  “He is concerned that you may feel compelled to defend me, given your vulnerable position at the moment, and may have somewhat misunderstood what you mean when you say you asked for this.  He remains rather outraged at the thought that you believe you have done something to earn punishment.”

“Oh!” Dean says, rolling his eyes at himself.  Yeah, that verbiage was a little unclear, considering.  “No, Stuart,” he interrupts again, “I mean I literally asked for this.  Verbally.  And not the same way I ask for punishments.  This isn’t a punishment at all.  I had to talk Cas into it, seriously.  This was something _I_ needed, not something he forced on me.”

Stuart pauses again, and Dean can see him hesitating, trying to decide whether to accept this explanation.  “Look,” Dean goes on, “I know that probably sounds ridiculous to you, that I might voluntarily ask for something that hurts, but—”  Another squeak interrupts him, much quieter this time, and above Dean, Cas snorts a laugh.  Dean cranes his neck over his shoulder, trying to give Cas a questioning look, and catches enough of a glimpse to see that Cas is shaking his head slightly, a look on his face that can’t quite decide whether to be amused or appalled.  “Okay, I have to know what he just said,” Dean presses.

“In effect, he noted that the concept of kink is not alien among species other than humans,” and now Dean is the one snorting, “but he observed that this does not particularly seem sexual to him, although he allows that some things about human sexuality may escape him.”

“No, it’s not—”  Dean starts, then interrupts himself with a sigh, “Cas, I think this conversation might work better upright.”

“You are likely not wrong,” Cas allows, offering his own sigh as he releases Dean’s wrists, “if you feel it necessary, we can continue this after Stuart is properly reassured of your well-being, but it seems to me that—”

“We’ve accomplished what we set out to do?” Dean posits, “Yeah, I think so too.  We’re good.”

 _“You_ are good,” Cas says quietly, carefully guiding Dean upright and helping him pull up his boxers (he’s once again grateful they’re soft flannel), if not his jeans.  The angel cups Dean’s cheek lightly in one hand, gazing steadily into his eyes, and reiterates, “my very, very good boy.”

Dean can feel himself blush to what feels like the tips of his _hair,_ and smiles back, turning his head to brush his lips lightly against the palm of his hand, “and you’re—” there’s not really any precise corollary to ‘good boy’ for a Top, but that’s okay, Dean knows what Cas always strives to be, and can give him the gift of assuring him that he succeeds.  “You’re exactly what I need.  Always.”

“Not always,” Cas corrects, brows furrowing.  “Sometimes I fall entirely short, and—”Dean can see him starting to gear up for some more self-flagellation over the ways in which he didn’t live up to his own standards for himself today, and he has no intention of letting it spiral into pointless self-loathing.  He knows a thing or two about pointless self-loathing, thanks, and he’ll be damned (again) if he’ll see Cas go down that road.  He speaks quickly, voice overlapping Cas’s.

“—and then you make it right,” he tells the angel, _“always.”_ Cas searches his face and must like what he sees there, because his lips curve upward just slightly, eyes impossibly warm, and it’s not until a small noise sounds from the window that either of them actually remembers they’ve got company.  Stuart squeaks something in a tone Dean would swear sounds kind of amused and kind of exasperated, and his face seems to bear that out when Dean glances over at him.  He turns back to Cas, looking for a translation, and finds Cas grinning.

“Stuart says that when he comes out of the diabetic coma our tooth-rotting sweetness is likely to induce, he’ll know that you were not being coerced into reassuring him, and while he may not understand, he accepts that what he witnessed was clearly some bizarrely ritualistic way of healing the fracture between us.”

“Wait, a rat just talked about diabetic comas and tooth decay?” Dean says, naturally latching onto the least salient part of things but unable to resist the urge to ask.

“He does seem to have adopted a number of very human turns of phrase, or as close as the language he has available to him permits.  I will—”  Cas breaks off, turning toward the rat, who is clearly speaking once again, although he’s subsided back into either silence or something near enough to it that Dean can no longer hear squeaking.  “Oh,” Cas says, sounding a little surprised, _“oh._ Really?  That is…uh.  Fair enough.”

Dean can count on one hand the number of times he’s heard Cas say either “uh” or “fair enough,” and he absolutely _must_ know what inspired both to appear at the same time.  He’s opening his mouth to demand an explanation when Cas shoots him a sidelong glance that clearly says _‘later.’_ Dean subsides, turning to smile at Stuart.

“Thanks for stepping up to protect me, buddy, even if I wasn’t actually in need of protection this time.  You helped us fix this a lot faster than we would’ve been able to without you.”  He’s careful with his verbiage, not wanting to inspire further descents into unproductive guilt from Cas.

“Stuart says you do not need to thank him, and that while he will be more than happy to discuss this with you further later, he feels he has done more than enough interrupting for one day, and intends to go find Sam.  Well,” Cas pauses to correct himself, “he actually said he would go find the only human in the bunker who is unlikely to kill him with sugar shock.”

Stuart’s nose wiggles in a way that speaks of mischief to Dean, and he grins back at the rat.  “Start thinking about what kind of treat you might like,” he tell Stuart, “because you’ve got something awesome coming to you for today.  My hero.”

If a rat could blush, Dean’s pretty sure Stuart would be blushing, but instead he just ducks his head, overcome by the praise, then sets about climbing down the side of the house.  Clearly it’s a bit more challenging than getting up, what with the scraping and scratching and eventual scrabble-scrabble- _thud,_ but before Dean can hop off the bed (and probably end up face-planting, since his jeans are still around his thighs, even if his boxers are back in place) to check on him, Cas is reassuring him.

“He’s fine, although making some uncharitable observations about the suitability of the house for climbing.”

“Bye buddy,” Dean calls, “let Sam know we’ll call him if we need anything,” this message should be sufficient to clue Sam in that they’d like a little privacy until they reach out, and that should serve to prevent the vast majority of other interruptions that might plague them at this point.

“He reminds you that he cannot communicate directly with Sam, and recommends that you tell him yourself,” Cas says, lips twitching, and Dean rolls his eyes, amused that he somehow managed to forget that Stuart doesn’t actually speak English and Sam definitely doesn’t speak rat.

A few moments pass before Cas nods, indicating that Stuart has gone.  Dean sags a little, chuckling.  Cas joins in a few seconds later, reaching down to help divest Dean of his jeans altogether, sensing quite accurately that the scrape of denim across his thighs is not particularly desirable at present.  “Well,” Cas observes once Dean’s jeans have been folded and set aside at the foot of the bed, “you do inspire great loyalty amongst your friends and family.”

“I’m not always entirely sure _why,_ but I’m damned grateful for it,” Dean tells him, smiling, and Cas reaches out to gently wipe the remnants of Dean’s abortive tears from under his eyes.

“On the contrary, I know exactly why.  Now come here and let me tell you,” Cas says, reaching out for him.  Dean shuffles closer on his knees obligingly, more than willing to allow himself a little coddling at this point, all things considered.  Cas draws him into an embrace, shifting until he is stretched out on the bed with Dean lying atop him, their arms tangled around each other, then presses his lips to the top of Dean’s head, to his forehead, to his cheeks before starting to speak.  “They—we—are loyal for so many reasons.  Because _you_ are loyal, nearly to a fault.  You are generous—I think you would give the shirt off your back if you thought someone was in need of it—and you are kind-hearted in the ways that matter most.  You can be vicious if necessary in defense of those you love or the powerless, and in fact are as fiercely protective as anyone I have ever known.  You are a good deal cleverer than you give yourself credit for, and no younger brother has ever been as well looked after, as carefully cared for, as Sam was in his childhood.  You are—” 

There’s more, then—a lot more, even, what sounds like an endless litany of praise for qualities Dean never really takes the time to give himself credit for (or doubts altogether, but Cas sounds so utterly certain of himself that it’s hard to doubt _him)—_ but eventually Dean is no longer really hearing it.  He can’t say exactly when, but at some point he starts to fade, completely wrung out by the incredible emotional and physical strain of the escape from Punk, the brooding that followed, and the subsequent confrontation with Cas—not to mention the spanking.

He drifts off, cradled securely against the familiar and much-loved chest, Cas’s gravelly voice the sweetest serenade he thinks he has ever heard.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And there you have it. All you've come to expect from me--schmoop, ridiculousness, and spanking. I hope it scratched an itch or two! Look for the next chapter a hell of a lot sooner than three months from now, although I can't be much more specific than that. Thanks for waiting for us!
> 
> Come find me on [tumblr](http://kreweofimp.tumblr.com) if you haven't already!


	14. Small Talk

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which one can learn all sorts of interesting things without a language barrier getting in the way.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Endless and eternal gratitude to my wonderful beta (and beautiful girlfriend) [Dangerousnotbroken](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Dangerousnotbroken/pseuds/Dangerousnotbroken), who is always there with encouragement when I need it, threats when nothing else will get me moving, and unwavering and unconditional support either way.

Dean is no stranger to rude awakenings.

It’s sort of a hazard of the trade.  You spend most of your life hunting monsters, there’s no way to escape being awoken in a plethora of sudden and unpleasant ways.  He’s got at least a top fifty list of ways it sucks to wake up, maybe more, and it’s a fair bet they don’t look a whole lot like the average person’s lousy wake-ups list. 

The most that can be said of this particular wake-up is that it doesn’t breach the top fifty.  The top hundred, maybe, but not the top fifty.  And it certainly doesn’t come anywhere near his number one worst wake-up (fucking Walt and Roy, although it’s fair to say Dean gave them a far ruder awakening of their own shortly before putting them right back to bed.  Permanently.  But that’s a whole other story).

The point is, had Dean been able to plan the manner and method of his wake-up, it’s a reasonable bet it wouldn’t have looked like this.

If he was forced to estimate, Dean would guess Stuart weighs something in the vicinity of half a pound, and he was able to give the dollhouse some pretty solid tremors while climbing it.  It’s not especially surprising that the moose who weighs nearly 400 times that is able to cause a hell of a lot more of an earthquake without ever touching the house.

The shouting doesn’t help either.

Dean comes awake with incredible abruptness as the house shakes hard.  For the second time that day, he is dimly aware of water slopping out of the sink in the bathroom.  The second intense tremor sends him jolting upright out of Cas’s arms.  He doesn’t even have time to register the fact that doing so causes no pain whatsoever in an area of his anatomy that by all rights ought to be shrieking protests.  In a few minutes, when he has time for anything but the immediate _identify threat, fight, defend_ instinctive response, he will put together that Cas quietly healed him in his sleep, confident (and accurate) in his certainty that the spanking had already done its job without leaving Dean to deal with the requisite aftereffects.

For the moment, though, he’s on his feet in a heartbeat, Cas sliding off the bed after him.  Dean has only just opened his mouth to say—shit, he doesn’t know what he would’ve said, and it’s immaterial anyway, because the booming noise is so loud that it has both of them slamming their hands over their ears and yelping in pain.

It’s only with the barrier of his hands somewhat muffling the sound that Dean is able to put together the shape of the noise when it comes again.

_“DEAN!”_

Oh, for fuck’s sake.  _Seriously?_ Sam should damn well know better at this point.

Dean makes for the stairs with all haste, opting to hop down them rather than clamber—it’s quicker, however ridiculous he probably looks hopping two-footed from step to step with his hands still jammed over his ears.

He’s halfway down the stairs before he realizes that maybe Sam’s shouting because of some kind of emergency, because something’s really _wrong,_ and if there’s a threat the fact that he’s in boxers and barefoot is probably not ideal.  Then again, the fact that he’s the size of Polly fucking Pocket is probably way more detrimental to his odds than his current state of dishabille, and it’s too late to go back up and fully dress anyway, so the front door it is.

He has to pull a hand away from his ear in order to open the door, and naturally he does so just as Sam’s next shout comes.  _“DEAN!  Get out here, you’re never gonna believe—”_

Dean manages to get his hand slapped back over his ear halfway through the sentence, and thank any and every deity out there, Sam cuts himself off the second Dean actually appears, glowering censoriously at his little-but-seriously-fucking-big brother.

“Oh, _shit,”_ Sam says in a far lower voice, grimacing, “sorry, dude, I’m really sorry, I completely forgot about volume, I just—you’re never gonna believe—”

“Yeah,” Dean says testily, finally daring to peel his hands away from his still-ringing ears, “I got that while you were trying to rupture my eardrums.  Any plans on telling me what I’m not going to believe?”

A hint of movement over his shoulder reveals itself to be Cas, emerging from the house in Dean’s wake, a similar scowl painted on his own minuscule face.

“Look, I’m really sorry,” Sam reiterates, face so openly apologetic that Dean has to work to maintain his glare.  He even sounds a little squeaky, presumably from chagrin.

“Rather than carrying on with apologies,” Cas jumps in somewhat irascibly, “perhaps you might just tell us what was so urgent that it necessitated disrupting Dean’s slumber with multiple earthquakes and that assault on our hapless ears?”

Sam wrinkles his nose, glancing down at the rat in his hand, and it’s only then that Dean actually processes what he’s seeing.  Stuart is cradled in one of Sam’s hands, tucked against his chest protectively.  That’s not all that weird (which is weird in and of itself, but Dean’s pretty much given up on normality over the past nearly-40-odd years, and especially in the last 48 hours, anyway).  What is a little odd is the enormous hunk of cheese in his other hand.  It looks to be the entire Costco-sized block of cheddar that was in the fridge when The Shrinking happened.  Huh.

“Okay, so, when Stuart came to join me,” Sam says, and Dean puts aside consideration of dairy products in favor of finding out what the hell is going on, “we were sort of trying to figure out how to communicate despite the language barrier, and not doing a super awesome job.  I could tell he wanted something but I couldn’t figure out what, and anyway, long story short, do you remember that case with the cowboy hat dude who was eating organs?”

Dean blinks a few times, trying to figure out exactly what the hell some random case has to do with—oh.  _Oh._ “Wait, you mean the case with the Colonel?”

“That’s the one,” Sam confirms.  Cas is looking between them, bewildered.  That’s one of the cases he wasn’t around for, so he’s not making the same connections Dean is starting to.

“Sam,” Dean says, rolling his eyes heavenward, “you _didn’t.”_

Sam shifts a little uncomfortably.  “I mean, there weren’t really any lasting side-effects to it for you, so I figured—”

“You’d go ahead and turn part dog just for the hell of it?”

“Actually,” Sam says, “that doesn’t seem to be happening to me.  No desire to play fetch, no urges to chase the mailman, and I definitely haven’t wanted to go after my little buddy here,” he says, hefting  Stuart a little.  The rat wiggles his nose and leans toward the block of cheese, which Sam obligingly moves closer, allowing Stuart to start nibbling delicately at a corner of the block that Dean now notes already has some rat-shaped toothmarks in it.  Funny thing is, the other side of the block has some _way_ bigger chunks taken out of it, and—“Hey, don’t be a hog,” Sam tells Stuart a little reproachfully, pulling the block of cheese away from the rat and taking an absolutely mammoth bite, chewing enthusiastically as he offers it back to a Stuart who seems only too happy to share his meal, “so anyway,” he goes on, heedless of his mouthful, “yeah, whatever that was with you developing dog-like tendencies doesn’t seem to be happening to me.”

“So uh,” Dean says, working very hard to suppress the tremor of oncoming hilarity from his voice, and hoping that because it’s so squeaky anyway, Sam’ll miss it altogether, “we put some of the Colonel’s hair in that stuff the first time around.  I’m guessing you put some of Stuart’s hair in this time?”

“Well, yeah,” Sam says, wiggling his nose around as if he’s trying not to sneeze, “he’s the one I wanted to be able to talk to, right?”

“Um, yeah,” Dean says, “so you don’t think maybe you might develop some—you know what, never mind,” he cuts himself off in mid-sentence.  This is way too much fun to ruin by pointing it out to Sam.  “So you’re communicating with Stuart, that’s awesome, is that what you came galumphing in here to tell us?”

“Kind of, but it’s more _what_ he told me that I had to—and by the way,” Sam interrupts himself, eyes darting quickly around the room for no apparent reason, “I saved a thimbleful of the potion for you in case you wanted to be able to chat with Stuart too.  Or I guess you could even see if Punkin’s willing to—”

“No,” Dean says immediately, shutting that shit down.  He has no interested in singing kumbaya with the cat, no matter how much Cas may have given him an attitude adjustment, “no way.  Maybe Stuart, but there’s a line and it comes somewhere before Punk.”

Speaking of whom, a quick glance around the room reveals no sign of the ginger monstrosity, which comes as a relief, whether or not the cat’s taken Cas’s lecture to heart.  Cas, meanwhile, nods agreement with Dean, no hint of reproach or irritation on his face.  Apparently, he _is_ planning a long-term revision of how he approaches Dean when it comes to the tabby from hell.  It’s heartening to see that things aren’t going to go right back to that particular status quo, not that Dean was expecting that they would.  “Not to mention,” Cas speaks up after a moment, looking thoughtful, “I doubt Punkin would appreciate such an effort without his prior approval, and it seems unlikely that he would provide any such approval.  Cats have specifically chosen not to make use of the communal language most animals favor.  I imagine he would feel that it was little better than eavesdropping.”

“Fair enough,” Sam agrees readily, “hey, has anybody seen Punkin, actually?” Bizarrely enough, Sam actually looks a touch _nervous_ as he asks the question, eyes darting around even more quickly, nose wriggling away.

“Not recently,” Dean tells him honestly, “and I’m just gonna—you know you’re like twenty times his size or something, right?”

“No, yeah, I know, but they’re so _fast,_ and the claws are really sharp, and it’s just—” Sam starts, then cuts off, frowning a little, “huh.  That was weird.  Anyway,” he pushes on hastily, as if hoping nobody will notice the part where he just seemed apprehensive about the possibility of encountering the little cat he’s been in love with since day one.  Dean doesn’t call him on it.  He’s way too busy biting the inside of his cheek to refrain from bursting into cackles.  His brother, the rat.  Whodathunkit?  “The _point_ is, I know why Stuart’s been so chill about all of the weird human-ness, and Cas being an angel, and so friendly with us.”

This, at last, fully brings Dean’s attention away from the nose-wiggling, cheese-eating, cat-fearing hilarity unfolding and firmly back to what Sam is actually saying.  “Oh yeah?” He asks, intrigued, “well don’t keep me in suspense.”

“Believe it or not,” Sam says, “Stuart here is a fanboy.”

“He’s a _what?”_ Dean says, quite certain he must have misheard.

“A fanboy,” Sam reiterates, then glances down, frowning a little, “Sorry, he says he prefers the term ‘enthusiast.’  Stuart is an… _us_ enthusiast.”

“I don’t follow,” Dean says flatly, glancing between brother and rat before shooting a look over his shoulder at the sound of soft snorting.  Cas’s lips are twitching hard as he works to suppress laughter, and the total lack of surprise on his face gives Dean a pretty good idea about what spawned the hitherto unexplained ‘uh, fair enough’ the angel uttered earlier.

“Apparently,” Sam says, folding his massive form down until he’s seated cross-legged on the floor (which is quite the relief for Dean’s poor neck, which is gonna have a permanent crick from how much craning it’s had to do lately), “Stuart and a small group of his friends and relatives have been, uh, following our activities for some time now.”

“You—wait,” Dean says, trying to wrap his mind around this, “you’re telling me that a group of rats is, like, keeping track of us?”

“Pretty much,” Sam confirms, reaching up to tear a truly impressive-sized hunk off the block of cheese with his teeth before offering it back to Stuart, who nibbles far more politely at it, “From what Stuart’s telling me, it kinda sounds like we’re their version of a soap opera.”

Dean bristles, “hey, that’s messed up.  We’re not nearly that cheesy or melodramatic.”

The soft snorting sounds from behind Dean intensify slightly.  He takes a bracing breath, choosing to ignore his boyfriend’s hilarity rather than vent his impulse to snark and risk having his for-once painless backside reintroduced to the hand it knows so well.

“That’s what I said,” Sam agrees, “but apparently we’re the only ones who think so.”  Instead of sounding put upon, there’s a tone of half-unwilling amusement to Sam’s voice, as if he’d kind of like to be annoyed but is too busy finding this twelve kinds of hilarious.

“So, what, Stuart knew exactly who I was and my whole fucking life story before he ever rescued me in that tunnel?”

“Basically,” Sam says, “except that I doubt he knows your _whole_ backstory.  It’s not like they’ve—”  Sam cuts off, frowning down at the rat, then blinks a few times, “okay, I stand corrected.  Stuart informs me that a friend of his—Greg, maybe?—names are kind of hard to communicate, even with the potion— has read the Supernatural books and filled them in.”

Dean blinks a few times, trying to integrate the knowledge that somehow Gregor (it has to be Gregor, right?) not only knows how to read English, but has somehow managed to read the complete works of Carver fuckin’ Edlund, then told the stories to a group of rats who are legit fucking _fans_ of the three of them.

“Okay,” he says, completely failing to decide whether he’s annoyed, amused, flattered, mortified, or something else altogether, “setting aside that I now have to reconcile the fact that the weirdest 48 hours of my life just somehow got a whole lot weirder, Stuart, I gotta tell you, I’m a little creeped out at the thought that you and your buddies have been watching Cas and I boning for...however long.”

There is a several-second pause before simultaneous snorts, one large and one small, ring out from in front of and behind Dean respectively and yeah, it’s actually a little annoying to be the only one who doesn’t know what the rat is saying.  Sam opens his mouth to translate, but Cas beats him to it: “Stuart would like to assure you that he and his cohort have less than no interest in witnessing those particular activities.  He notes that he is, frankly, shocked at the insinuation, and observes with some asperity that they’ve had to place an age restriction on which rats are permitted to join the, er, enthusiast club, as you and I have a tendency to give little warning before engaging in activities that are far from child-safe.”

Sam’s second snort in so many minutes rings from aloft as he mutters, “yeah, _tell_ me about it.”

Dean swings his head around to level a glare at the rat, pretty sure his eyes are nearly popping out of his head.  He doesn’t even dignify Sam’s retort with a response.  “Wait, _what now?_ I _know_ you did not just scold me for having sex with my own boyfriend in my own house without giving advance warning to the pack of creepers we didn’t know were using our lives as _entertainment.”_

Huh.  Okay then, apparently he’s decided to go with feeling violated.

There’s a relatively long moment of silence now, Cas and Sam’s foreheads knitting up into otherwise identical looks of concentration, size notwithstanding.  Dean taps an impatient foot on the ground, crossing his arms over his chest in a gesture intended to emphasize his displeasure with the rat and his club of enthusiasts.  Frankly, Dean’s had just about enough of having _fans._ Chuck’s acolytes were bad enough.  _Conventions_ were bad enough.  Fucking _cosplay_ was bad enough.  The idea that the absurdity of people who think their lives are entertainment isn’t restricted to, well, _people_ …it kind of makes Dean want to commandeer the biggest sky-writing plane on the planet and draw the largest middle finger he can muster, aimed squarely at the universe at large.

Once again, the quiet is interrupted by simultaneous noises from Sam and Cas—Sam’s a snort and Cas’s a slightly indignant huff, and now Dean’s irritation is waging a battle for supremacy with his curiosity.

“Will _someone—”_ he starts, but he doesn’t get the chance to finish the demand before Sam is piping up, lips quivering with poorly-concealed amusement.

“Stuart apologized and said you have a point and he’s sorry for the violation of your privacy, but thought you might be interested in knowing that he and his, er, cohort were firmly on your side in The Great Llama-Camel Debate of 2016.  That’s his words, not mine.  Apparently that’s what they called it?”

Dean’s not done being irritated, but he does have to set it aside for the moment, because this is some kind of sweet vindication right here.  He swivels to face Cas, triumph written all over his face, and finds the angel’s face has carved itself into an expression that can only be called _petulant._   “See?” Dean demands, inordinately pleased considering the absolute pointlessness of the long-lived debate in question, “a llama would totally be a better companion than a camel if you were the last man on earth.”

“Utterly ludicrous,” Cas insists, “and as I have had more interaction with both llamas and camels than you, I cannot see how—”

“You’re still just salty that that one llama was mean to you like 3000 years ago or something,” Dean tells him smugly, “seriously, dude, make like Elsa and let it go.”

“This has nothing to do with _him,”_ Cas huffs, making it clear that the ‘him’ in question is still firmly in Cas’s own personal doghouse, despite the passage of several millennia since the incident in question, “and you were not there.  You cannot imagine how frustrating it is to attempt to make such a thoroughly irrational, stubborn creature see reason.”  Every line in his face makes it clear that he deeply regrets telling Dean the story in question at all, particularly now, as they rehash territory they’ve gone over at least several hundred times in the past six months.

“Sure I have,” Dean says, lips twitching irrepressibly, “I argue with you all the time.” 

Sam’s snort may drown out Cas’s stunned silence, but it’s not half as loud as the self-satisfaction in Dean’s grin.

~*~

Neither of them quite remembers how they landed on the topic to begin with—Dean has a vague sense that it had something to do with some crappy movie with a dog in it—but somehow they’d gotten to talking about which animals would be the best companions if you were the last living human (or humanoid, Dean guesses) stuck on earth.  After they eliminated the usual suspects from consideration—no dogs or cats or other common domestic animals—Dean had settled on llamas.  Not for any good reason, he just thought they sounded fun.  Cas had been immediately incensed at the suggestion and promptly started insisting that no self-respecting human or angel would pick a llama if camels were a possibility.  Dean, highly amused by Cas’s passion and naturally somewhat (okay, fine, extremely) oppositional, promptly dug his heels in harder. 

The ensuing debate raged over a period of at least four months, until Sam declared that if he had to hear another word (or stumble across another encyclopedia page or article) about either camels, llamas, or post-apocalyptic scenarios, he was going to chain them both up together in the dungeon until they sorted their shit out without him having to hear about it.  Cas and Dean had grudgingly declared a truce and dropped the issue as one they were never likely to settle. 

Discovering that he has the support of their rodentine fan club is deeply satisfying, considering that Cas wins pretty much every disagreement in this relationship almost by default, and there’s no way Dean isn’t gonna savor the taste of victory.

The universe having apparently decided to make up for its earlier douchiness with the whole cat thing, it does Dean the rather delightful solid of discovering that his perfectly controlled and in-control Top has apparently morphed from ancient and immensely powerful multidimensional wavelength of celestial intent into a sulky five-year-old.  Cas has always been a bit of a sore loser, and considering the amount of debate and discussion that’s gone into the whole llama-camel thing, it’s probably not surprising that the look on his face can really only be described as a pout.

Dean tunes back into the conversation just in time to see a very disgruntled Castiel scowling at Stuart.  “I am only saying,” he says, clearly trying to sound reasonable and instead only managing irascible, “that I am the only creature in this bunker who has first-hand experience with both camels and llamas, and thus the only one truly qualified to determine this.”

“But you’ve never been the only person left on earth,” Dean points out helpfully, “so, you know, not fully an expert on the hypothetical in question.”

“Not to mention,” Sam pipes up, spraying tiny bits of cheese out of his mouth and necessitating that Dean and Cas both throw their arms over their heads and duck to avoid getting clocked by cheddar marinated in Sam-saliva.  “Oh, shit, sorry,” the giant in question says, sort of ruining the apology with an additional round of dairy-product-turned-projectile.  Before he can apologize again, Cas pipes up, sounding at least as aggrieved as Dean feels.

“Perhaps finish chewing, swallow, and _then_ continue,” he recommends, swiping a sticky piece of cheese off the arm of his trenchcoat with a grimace.

“You know, for somebody who’s always given me shit about my table manners, I think you’ve just lost that right forever,” Dean adds as Sam finishes chewing and swallows.

“Sorry about that,” Sam acknowledges, “but what I was gonna say is that data is not the plural of anecdote.  Yeah, you’ve met camels and llamas, Cas, but that mostly just means you know those specific camels and llamas.  It doesn’t mean you’re an expert on them in the aggregate.”

“I thought,” Cas says, sounding about as put upon as he ever has (and that’s saying something, considering how often Dean has been known to stretch his patience to its breaking point), “you were staying out of this dispute, Sam.”

“I was.  I mean, I am, but—oh crap,” Sam cuts himself off as his phone starts ringing in his pocket, pulling it out and frowning at the screen, “I gotta get this.  I’ve put out some feelers to other hunters and a good witch or two to see if anyone recognizes the homunculus or has any ideas about how to reverse its effects.  Stuart, why don’t you hang out here?”

The rat must agree, cause a second later Sam is setting him down on the floor beside Dean and Cas before lifting his phone to his ear and striding out of the bedroom.  “Hey, Matt,” he says, “what have you got for me?”

Dean turns back to Cas, prepared for another round in the newly-revived feud, and instead finds the angel staring at Stuart with an expression of horrified fascination.  A quick glance at the rat reveals the reason why.  He apparently cannot stomach the idea of wasting (what he at least sees as) perfectly good cheese, and is hard at work snacking on Sam’s leavings.  “Oh, gross, dude,” Dean says, making a face, “seriously, there’s no way you’re that hard up for food.”

Stuart pauses just long enough to narrow his eyes slightly at Dean before going back to his thoroughly disgusting meal.  Cas shrugs, shaking his head and peeling off his cheese-smeared trenchcoat with a grimace.  “Stuart, I think we will leave you to your snack for the present, lest you destroy Dean’s appetite for weeks to come.”

“Good call,” Dean agrees, turning to make a beeline for the house.  The cheese-shower was quite enough disgusting for one day.  He doesn’t really need to see the clean-up crew at work.

~*~

Their mutual disgust over Stuart’s most recent life choices serves to cut off the budding dispute at the pass, and instead Dean and Cas settle in for some afternoon cuddles on the couch in the living room. 

“I would ask if you were hungry,” Cas says ten or fifteen minutes later, wrinkling his nose, “but I rather imagine it will be some time before your appetite recovers.”

“You seriously underestimate my appetite,” Dean tells him, “it takes a lot more than that to knock it out—but I’m fine until Sam comes in with dinner.  What time is it, anyway?”  The lack of windows in the bunker is great for security, but it sure doesn’t help circadian rhythms, especially when naps are involved.

“Nearly 6:30, I believe,” Cas tells him, “and it has been quite a full afternoon.”

“You’re not wrong,” Dean agrees, making a face, “been quite a full two days, really.”

“So it has, and—oh, hello, Gregor,” Cas interrupts himself, smiling at the entranceway to the living room.  Dean pivots, face already breaking into a grin in anticipation of seeing his little buddy, quietly taking a second to muse that if someone had told him three days ago that he would be delighted to see a cockroach, he’d have laughed in their face.  This indisputable truth doesn’t serve to dampen his delight any, and if the happy waggling of Gregor’s hind end is to be believed, he’s just as happy to see them.

“Hey, buddy,” Dean greets, “what’s up?”

There’s a momentary pause before Cas speaks up to translate.  “He says he was looking into potential avenues for our regrowth, but has had no success to speak of thus far.”’

Dean exchanges a quick look with Cas, brows shooting upward.  The roach has been doing research?  How the hell does that even work?

“Wait,” Dean says, “does that mean you can read?”

Another pause, and Cas, who is generally so good at maintaining a façade of neutrality, sounds a little boggled when he translates.  “Er—yes, Gregor can read in eight languages, apparently, including Enochian.”

Dean goggles at him for a long moment, trying to wrap his brain around this new information.  “How the…I mean—when did you have _time_ to learn that many languages?”  Cas raises a brow at Dean, apparently less than impressed with Dean latching onto that particular question as opposed to any number of others that come to mind.  A moment later, though, the angel’s head has whipped back around to the cockroach.

“That is awfully cryptic,” Cas says, frowning, before glancing back at Dean, “he states that time is the one thing he has never lacked for.”

“Okay, I’ll grant you I don’t know a whole bunch about the average cockroach’s lifecycle, but—”  Cas lifts a hand to silence Dean, tilting his head to listen intently to whatever Gregor is saying.

“He is laughing extremely hard, but notes that he is essentially the antithesis of an average cockroach.”

“You can’t just leave it at that,” Dean says as Gregor scuttles around the back of the couch to settle in front of them, “c’mon, Stuart told us all about his fan club, now it’s your turn to spill.”

“He says that it is an extremely long and involved story, but he is more than happy to share it—with one condition.”

“Oh yeah?” Dean asks, intrigued despite himself.

“He would like to be able to speak to both of us directly without using me as a go-between,” Cas says, nodding.  “Gregor witnessed Sam take the potion earlier and requests that you consider doing the same, such that his story need only be told once, and fully in his own words.”

Having watched Sam chomping happily away at a huge block of cheese (and remembering his own antagonistic relationship with the mailman the last time he himself took it), Dean had been planning to give the potion a pass this time around.   Maybe nothing other than this particular request could have changed his mind, but he figures the least he owes the roach who guided him to safety when he was lost and injured is the opportunity to communicate with Dean as readily as Dean’s been able to communicate with him.  The only potential obstacle turns out not to be one, as a sidelong glance at Cas has the angel nodding almost imperceptibly to Dean, a clear ‘go ahead if you’d like.’

“Okay,” Dean says, “you’re on.  But first we’re gonna need—”

For once in his life Sam’s timing is impeccable, as the tremors from heavy footsteps vibrate the house under their feet.  Dean lifts a single finger to Gregor in the universal gesture for wait-a-second, then hurries out to meet Sam, snorting in amusement at what he finds immediately outside.  Stuart has apparently been busy in the interim; the formerly cheese-littered floor is pristine, and the rat has curled up into a ball off to one side for an after-dinner nap, having disposed of all of Sam’s leavings.

The brother in question appears a few moments later, carrying another tiny plate in one hand, two thimbles clutched in the other. 

“Okay, I went with burgers again cause we’re low on supplies.  I’m gonna need to make a grocery run tomorrow, but I figured you wouldn’t mind too much.”

“Oh no, however will I survive burgers two days in a row,” Dean laments melodramatically, earning a snort from Sam as he sets down the plate, then very carefully deposits the thimbles next to it.  Dean reaches for one of them, thirsty as hell, but before he can snag it, a single massive finger blocks his way.

“Not so fast,” Sam says, “the other one’s water.  This one’s the potion I saved for you, if you want it.  I thought you might like to chat with Stuart too.”

Well, he’s half right.

“Thanks, Sammy,” Dean tells him, “for dinner and, you know, everything.”

“Sure thing,” Sam tells him, standing once more to his full height, “I gotta go make another phone call, but—”

“We’ll let you know if we need anything,” Dean assures him.  “We’ve got the phone.”

“Great, I’ll check in with you before bed.”

The vibrations recede as Sam exits, and a moment later Cas and Gregor appear at the door to the house.

“Looks like we’re a go,” Dean informs them, motioning to the thimbleful of potion.

“Gregor says you should go ahead and eat your dinner first,” Cas translates, “and then we can commence storytime.”

“The suspense is killing me, dude,” Dean tells the cockroach.  Gregor’s antennae quiver in something that looks a good deal like amusement, but he waves a little leg in the general direction of Dean’s food nevertheless.

~*~

Despite Cas’s dislike of Dean’s tendency to bolt his food, he destroys his dinner in record time.  As soon as he swallows the last bite, the roach is at his side, leaning forward and dipping an antenna in the potion, swishing it around for a few seconds.

“That should do it,” Cas confirms, “the potion now is calibrated to Gregor’s essence.  You should be able to understand him upon taking it.”

Dean reaches down to snag the potion, peering into the thimble.  “Well,” he tells them, toasting them with the makeshift goblet “L’chaim, I guess?”

With a glance between roach and angel, Dean drinks the potion.

_Here goes nothing._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well. I did say last chapter I was hoping it would be less than three months between updates, and two months is indeed less than three months?
> 
> But seriously. I'm sorry yet again. I'm having a hard time settling to write these days, which is why you're waiting so long between chapters (you know, a year ago at this time, I was churning out three chapters of Snowbound a week. Where the hell has that muse fucked off to, I'd like to know). I'm so grateful to all of you who are sticking with me and the story despite the long gaps. I hope this chapter was worth the wait, and that you're looking forward to learning some more about our insectile, Kafka-esque friend. I can't wait to hear what y'all think of recent developments.
> 
> Till next time! And don't hesitate to come find me on [tumblr](http://kreweofimp.tumblr.com). I'm generally fairly entertaining, if I do say so myself.


	15. Tall Tales

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which reality is way more unbelievable than anything Dean's imagination could come up with.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey crew. I know it’s been forever since my last update. A more lengthy explanation can be found in the notes following the chapter, but for now, suffice it to say this chapter is dedicated to the memory of Imp, the best friend I’ve ever had.

Dean’s first nonsensical thought as his gag reflex goes to war with the potion is that, late thirties or no, paper-doll-sized or no, his memory is clearly still as good as it ever was, because this shit tastes exactly as foul as he remembers.  Gritting his teeth and forcing his throat into submission (something he’s got a fair amount of experience at, albeit usually for activities more enjoyable than this one), Dean manages to get the thimbleful down.  Still working on not horking up the entire lot, he lets the thimble drop carelessly to the floor and bends over, resting his hands on his knees and breathing deeply and evenly.  The worst of it passes within ten or fifteen seconds, but he stays put just in case, closing his eyes and counting his breaths.

“—long do you suppose it take to work?” An unfamiliar voice inquires from behind him.

“No idea,” responds Cas’s familiar gravel, “I was not present the last time Dean drank this potion, and it’s possible that our size will impact the speed and efficacy of it.”

“Of course,” the first voice says, mellifluous and smooth as the finest whiskey Dean’s ever tasted, “all of this is presuming that he manages to keep it down at all.  He is looking rather green.”

“True,” Cas agrees, and a familiar warm hand settles on the small of Dean’s back, rubbing soothingly, “keep breathing, Dean, I am sure it will pass.”

Dean kind of wants to ask how Cas would know, given that he wasn’t actually here the last time around, but he’s too busy marveling at that mellow, liquid voice and processing the very beginnings of a revelation.  See, the thing is, other than Dean there are only three peo—okay, not people, but sentient creatures—in the room at the moment…and right around the same time he processes that it sounds like the lovechild of Lawrence Fishburne and James Earl Jones is hanging out several inches behind him, another new voice pipes up to his left.

“D’ye think the lad’s alright?” The voice says in what is distinctly and unmistakably an Irish brogue, and now Dean’s _really_ reeling.  And not in the dancing sense.

He swivels toward the new voice, opening his eyes again, and finds himself staring directly into the concerned-looking gaze of a familiar (and now wide awake) rodentine face.

“He will be fine,” Cas says, “in fact, he is already a much healthier color.  Dean, are you feeling better?”

“Uh,” Dean says cleverly, way too busy trying to process the fucking _voices_ he’s hearing to worry about nausea that’s pretty much entirely gone at this point anyway.  “I—uh…yeah.”

“See?” Cas says reassuringly, earning a smoothly relieved sigh from behind Dean and an appreciative and kind of oddly phlegmy, distinctly Irish (or maybe it’s Scottish?  He’s not entirely sure) sound from his left.  “Dean, Stuart and Gregor are wondering how long—”

“—it’ll take before the stuff kicks in,” Dean says a little weakly, “About thirty seconds ago, actually.  But you guys _have_ to be putting me on.”

“Putting ye on?” Stuart inquires, sounding nearly as mystified as Dean feels.  “What d’ye—”

“Dude,” Dean interrupts, “where were you born?”

“Right here in the bunker,” Stuart says, confirming what Dean already suspected, “Just like me mum and da and their mum and da before them.”

“Okay, setting aside the fact that apparently countless generations of rats have had no trouble getting in and out of a bunker supposedly warded against hell and all its minions—you were born right here in Lebanon freakin’ Kansas, but you can’t imagine why it might come as a surprise that you sound like you just walked right out of Belfast or—uh,” Shit, he doesn’t actually know any other places in Ireland off the top of his head, nor how regional accents figure in, but fuck it, Stuart can’t have a legit regional Irish accent because he’s not fuckin’ Irish, “—somewhere else in Ireland?”

Stuart blinks at Dean once or twice, but before he can gather his wits about him enough to respond, an iron hand is clamping around Dean’s elbow and hauling him back toward the door of the house.  “If you’ll excuse us just a moment, gentlemen,” Cas says pleasantly, but there’s an undercurrent of steel to his voice that makes Dean’s ass clench pre-emptively.

Both rodent and insect murmur assent, and a few seconds later the door to the house shuts firmly, leaving Dean and Cas alone in the foyer.  Dean turns to Cas, opening his mouth to defend himself even though he’s not entirely sure why he’s actually in trouble yet, but before he can speak the angel says something so unexpected (today is apparently the day for unexpected verbalization?) that it leaves him choking on his own saliva.  “Oh my God, Dean, you can’t just ask people why they’re Irish.”

A brief coughing fit and a few solid slaps on the back courtesy of one clearly pleased with himself and pint-sized angel later, and Dean is able to catch his breath enough to respond, still goggling at Cas.  “Did you just—was that a—that was intentional, wasn’t it?”

“After approximately the fourth time you forced me to watch that movie with you, I was bound to pick up something.”

“No, but you actually made the reference _appropriately._ That was, like, _perfect._ Who _are_ you?”

Cas is practically preening at this point, delighted at the reception his reference has received, and Dean can’t help but grin back at him, shaking his head in wonderment.  After a few seconds, Cas clears his throat, schooling his face back to solemnity with clear effort.

“In all seriousness, Dean, my understanding from Gregor is that nobody is quite sure why Stuart speaks with an accent that approximates an Irish one, but—“

“Cas, come on, that doesn’t _approximate_ an Irish accent, it’s spot-on!”

“Setting aside the fact that I know perfectly well that you have never stepped foot in Ireland and know nothing about their accents, the _point_ I am making is that it is apparently something of a sensitive topic for Stuart.”

“Wait,” says Dean, just now catching up, “you’re telling me that not only does he speak in an Irish accent, he’s the _only one who does?”_   Now that he thinks about it, Dean had just sort of assumed that if Stuart spoke in a brogue, the rest of his…tribe or gang (or whatever the hell you called a community of rats) would too, but apparently not?

“As I understand from Gregor, this is indeed unique to Stuart.”

“…I’m so confused.”

“Yes, well, all I ask is that you show some sensitivity in discussing this.”

“Fair.  And what about Gregor?  Is he, like, sensitive about the fact that he sounds like the world’s best voice-over actor?”

“No, he seems to find humanoid responses to his voice entertaining, as best I can gather.”

“Good, cause no offense, babe, you know I love you, but I kinda want to fornicate with his voice.”

“None taken,” Cas says serenely, “it is rather delightful.  Shall we?  I know you wanted to hear Gregor’s story.”

“We shall,” Dean says, motioning Cas ahead of him and following the angel out the door. With the delicate matter surrounding Stuart’s accent firmly handled, Castiel appears keen to return to the conversation at hand, and Dean can’t blame him. Just last week he had to do some quick damage control after thoughtlessly saying “curiosity killed the cat” to the angel (Cas only calmed down after a great deal of reassurance that the idiom didn’t actually have anything to do with Dean having designs on Punk’s life).  In the wake of that fiasco, Cas informed Dean that he’d looked up the saying and that there was a hitherto unknown (at least by Dean) second part, wherein the cat in question is brought back by satisfaction. He’s got a feeling this tale is going to be plenty satisfaction, and he’s eager to find out what Gregor has to say now that he can actually, you know, _hear_ it.

Back outside, Stuart and Gregor, conversing in hushed tones, turn immediately, going silent as Dean and Cas emerge.  Stuart’s nose wriggles in their general direction as Gregor waves a friendly antenna in a manner Dean recognizes from pre-elixir as greeting.  Nothing about this strikes Dean as strange (which, to be fair, is probably a pretty concise statement on his life’s current strangeness quotient)—but it’s clearly gonna take some time to accustom himself to the chorus of voices that accompanies the familiar gestures.

“Ah,” says Gregor smoothly, “welcome back, gentlemen.  I trust there are no problems that need attending to?”

“Aye, all is well?” Stuart chimes in, worry in both his voice and his eyes.  Dean knows he’s not generally considered the more sensitive of the Brothers Winchester, but it’s glaringly obvious to him that Stuart’s feeling a little insecure, given that the two of them vanished right after Dean rudely gawped at the rat’s accent.  The rush of regret that comes over him must show on his face, if the quick reassuring squeeze Cas gives his shoulder is any indication.

“Yep, everything’s all good, guys,” Dean assures them, smiling kindly.  Gregor visibly relaxes (the fact that Dean can recognize easily what “visibly relaxing” looks like in cockroach is a whole other can of wor—okay, bad analogy.  A whole other ball of wax, then), but there’s still something a little uneasy in the tilt of Stuart’s head, so Dean steps forward to scratch behind the rat’s ear.  It’s something Cas has taught him over the years—that when words won’t suffice, especially where reassurance is concerned, often touch does the job—and it’s as true now as it is when Cas uses it to rescue Dean from a deeper dive than usual into self-loathing.  The rat tilts his head into Dean’s hand affectionately, the thread of tension in him seeming to ease.  They remain like this for a few minutes, the tactile connection as clear a demonstration of Dean’s affection and regard as anything, and it’s only when he catches a slight movement from the corner of his eye that he turns to see Cas and Gregor standing side by side.  The former is smiling warmly at them and hell if he could say how he knows it, but Dean’s pretty damn sure the latter is too.

Maybe the weirdest part about this whole body language thing is that Dean’s completely certain it doesn’t track back to the potion.  He was already doing a pretty good job of learning to read the nonverbal signals both rat and roach were giving him before that.  When he talks it over with Sam later, the kid’s probably going to want to go get funding from the NIH for a peer-reviewed study about interspecies body language communication, and—come to think of it, maybe he just won’t mention it to Sam.

“Now then,” Gregor says, finally picking up the discarded threads of conversation, “I believe there was a tale the pair of you were interested in hearing, was there not?”

For the first time, Dean takes a moment to process everything he’s heard Gregor say before now (to be fair, there’s not that much) and realizes that it’s not just the smooth liquidity of his voice that’s noteworthy.  There’s also something about his verbiage, about the specific turns of phrase he uses, that strikes Dean as…oddly formal, kind of, but that’s not quite what’s tripping him up.  Cas’s speech is often oddly formal too, but not in the same way as Gregor’s.  Dean can’t quite put his finger on it yet, but he’s got an inkling that the tale in question might put that particular mystery to rest along with a number of others.

“Indeed there was,” Cas responds, and as long as he’s thinking about vocalization and tone and such, Dean takes a quick moment to be amused all over again that somehow Cas’s tiny vocal chords manage to make even his squeaking (and yeah, fine, fuck it, they’re both pretty much squeaking—probably inevitable when you’re actually the size of Alvin, Simon, and fuckin’ Theodore) somehow gravelly.

“Yeah,” Dean chimes in, “I’m all ears.”

“Depending upon how many questions you have for me,” Gregor says thoughtfully, then pauses and adds, just a touch of humor in his voice, “and I rather imagine you will have many—this may take some time.  Perhaps we should endeavor to settle more comfortably first?  Sadly, Stuart cannot fit into the house, and although he is quite familiar with my history, it would seem a shame to exclude him.”

“Yeah, no way,” Dean chimes in, still eager to reassure Stuart that, completely inexplicable Irish accent or no, he’s still as much a part of this dynamic foursome as ever, “we’ll chill out here instead.  Cas, what do you think about getting the comforter off the bed or something?”  They could probably just sit on the floor, given that for once in his damn life Dean’s ass is perfectly pristine, but if Gregor’s encouraging comfort, Dean’s definitely on board.  The word “hedonist” has been applied to him—not entirely (oh, fine, not remotely) inaccurately—more than once, after all.

Cas hums thoughtfully, then shakes his head.  “I’ve a better idea,” he says, then seizes Dean’s arm and hauls him back in the direction of the house.

~*~

Ten minutes, an embarrassing amount of huffing and puffing (look, the thing is damn solidly made), and some interesting tetrising later, the couch from the living room is settled in the space just outside the front door, in what Dean guesses has sort of functionally become their “yard,” such as it is.  If this goes on too long, maybe he’ll have Sam pick up a square of that fake astroturf stuff and they can really get domestic, but for the moment he’s still holding out hope that gigantor will manage to figure out how to regrow them before too long.

“Okay,” Dean says, collapsing in a heap on the couch and trying to pretend like moving a Pop-Tart sized piece of furniture didn’t completely wind him (maybe Sam’s onto something about laying off the burgers?  …yeah, no.  Fuck that), “the floor is yours, Gregor.”  He doesn’t even need to look over at Cas to know that his face is scrunching up in adorable confusion.  “It means he gets to talk now, Cas, not that he’s actually got ownership over the floor.  We’ve all got…shared custody of the floor.  Or something.”

“Ahhh,” Cas hums, relieved and appreciative of the clarification, “that makes a great deal more sense, although I maintain that idiomatic turns of phrase in the English language are particularly—”

“So,” Dean interrupts ruthlessly, with a mental apology to his ass, what with how much Cas hates being interrupted, “I figure we can either have this conversation for maybe the 372nd time, or we can listen to Gregor’s story, but there’s probably not time to do both.”

How Cas somehow manages to give him a look that’s both censuring and sheepish, Dean will never know, but given how versatile the angel has proven, it probably shouldn’t shock him too much.  “True enough,” Cas acknowledges, “although—”

“I know, I know,” Dean interrupts, “I interrupted, but you and I both know that once you get started on that particular topic you don’t even pause for breath, so—”

“And does that explain why you just interrupted me _again?”_ This time the tone of voice has tipped over fully into stern.

Dean is brought up short. 

Again. 

Literally.

“No, actually.  Sorry, sir.”

“Forgiven,” Cas tells him, settling onto the couch beside Dean and tugging him in for something that Dean will never admit—oh, fuck it, fine, it’s a cuddle.  “And perhaps you should start, Gregor, before we meander off on another extraneous tangent?”

“Good call,” Dean mutters, “just one last thing.”

“Oh?” Cas says, quirking a brow at Dean.

“Yeah.  We need to be out here cause of Stuart, but if you hear Sam start to galumph down the hallway, head for cover, Gregor, okay?”

“Very well,” Gregor hums, sounding a touch downcast.

“Look, we _are_ gonna deal with it,” Dean assures him, “there just really hasn’t been time yet, and it’s a…delicate issue.”

“I do not mean to rush you,” Gregor tells them earnestly, “and certainly after this long, I am well accustomed to the average human’s response to my species.  I simply…well.  We all have our crosses to bear, and this is one of mine.”

Something in Gregor’s words trip something in Dean’s memory, but he’s having a hard time landing on what exactly it is, so instead he settles in more comfortably against Cas and nods sympathetically.

“Yeah, it’s pretty unfair all things considered, but we can work on Sam.  I don’t plan on giving you up as my buddy, even when I’m no longer fun sized.”

“Really, Dean, I would not say that you are any less fun at—”

“Candy bar reference, Cas.” Dean interjects.  Correcting idiom misunderstandings in progress are, like, the one time he’s got carte blanche to interrupt Cas, although frequently he doesn’t bother since it’s more fun to see what he makes of them.

“Oh, indeed?  Very well.”  Cas accepts graciously, and they both subside into silence.  Turning to face both rat, who is settled kitty-corner (rat-corner?) to the couch and cockroach, who is settled directly in front of it, Dean discovers that there’s a distinct air about both that suggests indulgent amusement at Dean and Cas’s half-banter, half-bickering.  Dean can’t really fault them.

“Now then,” Gregor says, and Dean’s pretty sure if he had lips they would be twitching with suppressed laughter, “my story begins, as so many do, with an egg.”

Wait, what?  Cas is nodding along, apparently accepting that many stories begin with an egg, but Dean’s mentally paging through nearly four decades of accumulated stories, some of which are really fuckin weird, and he can’t seem to recall a single one that starts with an egg.  And he tries to bite his tongue, he really does, but—seriously?

“I’m, uh, not saying that’s not an interesting opener, buddy,” Dean bursts out, unable to restrain himself, “and I’m definitely not saying you haven’t piqued my interest, but…exactly how many stories actually begin with an _egg?”_

Cas turns to frown at Dean, who can pretty much hear the admonition ( _“Manners, Dean.”_ ) even without a single word being spoken.  Dean’s probably saved only by the fact that, far from being offended, Gregor laughs richly.  And “richly” is the right word.  It’s like the auditory version of a double chocolate brownie and chocolate chip cookie dough ice cream sundae, and Dean kind of wants to roll around in it.

“A fair point, Dean,” Gregor allows through chuckles, “I forget that I am speaking to a cadre of mammals—well.  Two mammals and, I suppose, something else altogether that is currently inhabiting mammalian form,” he tips an antenna respectfully in Castiel’s direction, “but in any event, and unsurprisingly, many cockroach stories indeed begin with an egg.”

Dean grins back at him.  “Good point.  I was being species-ist.  That’s my bad, Gregor.  Carry on.  Your story begins, as so many do, with an egg.”

“Indeed,” Gregor confirms, his voice still liberally laced with amusement, “an egg that hatched in this very bunker.  Much like Stuart, I—along with several dozen of my brethren—was hatched right here, although I…somewhat predate him.”

“Given that domestic rats have lifespans that well exceed that of the average cockroach, I—” 

This time, it’s Cas who interrupts, and Dean has the nearly once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to turn to him and say, in fair imitation of Cas himself, “ _Manners, Cas.”_   The look he gets from the Christmas-Tree-Topper-sized Cas would be enough to freeze someone Sam’s size in his tracks, but Dean’s sense of self-preservation has always been a little questionable, so he just tips Cas a cocky grin and turns back to Gregor.

“While I recognize that he is, to use your own term, ‘bratting,’ Castiel, and I certainly would not have phrased it the same way, Dean may have a point,” the cockroach in question offers mildly.  “Perhaps we should endeavor to save the majority of questions and comments for the end?  Or at least for the middle?  If we carry on like this, Stuart and Dean may have died of old age before I get further than my larval stage.”

“Very well,” Cas agrees, but there’s a gleam in his eye as he glances at Dean that says more clearly than words that Dean had better watch himself awful closely if he wants his ass to stay in the pristine condition it currently finds itself.  Dean gives him a non-sassy smile in response and watches the angel’s face soften barely perceptibly in response.  Much of a hard-ass as he can be, Cas is also at least as much of a sucker for Dean as Dean is for him.  Squeezing his hand, Dean turns back to Gregor.

“The motion carries.  Go on, and the peanut gallery will do our best to shut up and listen.”

“Now then,” Gregor says, and while Dean kind of suspects that if their positions were reversed, he’d be about ready to murder the peanut gallery by now, the good-natured patience in Gregor’s voice and demeanor seem unforced.  It only makes Dean more eager still to discover what in the hell could have left a cockroach with the bizarre constellation of qualities that characterize Gregor, “this bunker, as both of you know by now I am sure, was completed in 1935.”  Cas and Dean both nod in acknowledgment.  This is not news to either of them, and Dean’s having kind of a hard time figuring why on earth that would be relevant…right up until Gregor takes an audible breath and drops the bomb to end all bombs.  “I remind you of this because as chance would have it, 1935 was also the year of my hatching.”

Wait.  _What?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thirteen years ago in May, I adopted a slip of a kitten. Ten weeks old, lanky, clumsy, and hilarious, it was love at first sight for both of us. Nearly four months ago, five days after his thirteenth birthday, I held him in my arms and rocked him to sleep after a bitter, hard-fought two-year battle with cancer.
> 
> Imp was my best friend, the love of my life, my child, my muse, and the loss of him undid me. I spent the first three weeks just trying to remember how to breathe. In the immediate (and extended) aftermath of his death, I spent a lot of time writing love letters to his memory, publishing them to my Facebook—but I didn’t go anywhere near any of my fic. Sometime in May I said to my mother, “Mom, I haven’t written a word since Imp died, what if I don’t know how anymore?” She laughed and shook her head. “Yes you have, honey. You’ve done nothing but write. Go look at your Facebook wall.” 
> 
> She was right. I have, in fact, been writing—just not fiction. I hope you’ll forgive me the long delay, my much-beloved readers. There was a story that needed telling more urgently than this one, and I was the only one who could tell it.
> 
> So. Consider this chapter, this work, hell, every word I ever write dedicated to the memory of my sweet little muse Olympus, better known as Imp; March 17, 2004 – March 22, 2017. Sleep well, my love.
> 
>   
> Ten weeks old
> 
>   
> My favorite picture of him.
> 
> If you’d like to know a little bit more about Imp’s life, [I wrote this](http://kreweofimp.tumblr.com/post/158717409927/my-name-is-imp-and-i-died-today) the day that he died.
> 
> Next chapter, we’ll hear the rest of Gregor’s story. 
> 
> Thanks for your patience, and for sticking with me.


	16. Long Story Short

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which a long-awaited backstory finally comes out, the bunker has been well-guarded these many years, and potions have side effects.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey crew! Been awhile, hasn't it? I know some of you were probably resigned to this fella being abandoned. Surprise, it's not! (Neither is my other WIP, No Haven in this World; it's still on my radar, I promise)

The silence after this pronouncement spins out for what feels like hours but is probably no more than twenty seconds—and honestly, ‘silence’ is probably overstating it.  Neither Cas nor Dean actually talks, but there’s definitely spluttering from Dean and a few abortive inhalations from Cas—the sort one makes when they’re about to start speaking and then realize they haven’t a fucking clue what to say.

“Wh—bu—y—” About fifteen seconds in, Dean decides to give speech a go.  It doesn’t go well.

“Are you—but that’s—the lifespan of—I’m not sure that I—” Cas’s attempt goes only marginally better.

Gregor is both polite and patient enough to refrain from laughing at them, even though Dean’s pretty sure he wants to.  The way his antennae vibrate ever-so-slightly reminds Dean of nothing so much as the way Cas’s lips quiver when he’s working really hard not to laugh at something Dean’s done or said (usually something that’s going to get him into all manner of trouble, and that Cas feels he must project the right aura of sternness about, despite secretly being amused).  Dean’s suspicion about his amusement level is confirmed when Gregor chooses to provide answers to all of Cas’s unfinished questions.  “I am quite serious, yes I know it’s impossible, I told you I was no average cockroach, and of course you don’t yet understand.  There is, obviously, more to the story.”

This time Dean’s the one who manages to speak, weakly, pretty sure he’s goggling unflatteringly at the cockroach.  “We’re all ears, dude.”

“Unlike me,” Gregor observes tranquilly, antennae vibrating again in humor, “who has no ears at all.”

“Wait, you don’t have any _ears?_ How are you _hearing—"_

“Ears are not a standard part of cockroach anatomy, Dean,” Cas says, finally regaining his wits just in time to seize an opportunity to be pedantic.  Sometimes he is _so like_ Sam. 

“And the answer to your question,” Gregor picks up smoothly, “is that I perceive sound vibrations via the minuscule hairs on my limbs.  They are surprisingly sensitive, although developing the ability to perceive and parse human speech at conversational speed did take time.”

“It sounds like,” Dean says, shaking his head in no small amount of disbelief, “you’ve had plenty of that to work with.”

“How very right you are,” Gregor says, and there is a subtle but unmistakable mingling of emotions in his voice—humor and wryness foremost, but underlain with a hint of melancholy that almost sounds (although if pressed, Dean couldn’t say how he knows it) like _loneliness._ Despite its subtlety, there is something about that impossible sadness, a profundity and agelessness that takes Dean’s breath away and makes him want to curl in around the fleeting sense of emptiness in his chest.  He is left staring, wide-eyed, at the cockroach who barely an hour ago occupied the same space in his head that a strangely-shaped and unusually intelligent dog might.  The ability to communicate openly and directly is a hell of a drug. 

As usual, Dean couldn’t say how he knows, but as the cockroach’s liquid eyes meet his, he knows that Gregor is smiling just a little in recognition and acknowledgement.

When Dean opens his mouth to speak, he finds that his mouth has gone dry.  He has to swallow several times before he can work up the saliva to produce words.  “Tell us?” he asks, the question almost tentative and bearing none of the whimsy that had been so prominent in the earlier parts of this conversation.

Gregor settles himself a little, taking a deep breath and visibly setting aside the weight of what must have been a very lonely—what, eighty or so years?  That’s a full life for a human.  For a roach?  Dean has to subtly pinch his own thigh to bring himself back to center lest he get lost in contemplation of Gregor’s long journey before he’s even heard the actual story of that journey.

“Indeed, Dean.  As I said, I hatched in perfectly ordinary fashion from a perfectly ordinary egg in 1935—February or thereabouts, as best I can figure it—and for some months, led a perfectly ordinary cockroach life.  But as you know, this bunker is a wellspring of magical knowledge and powerful objects, and eventually my curiosity was my downfall—or, I suppose, my long-lasting lack thereof—as it so often is.” 

“Oh,” says Dean, unable to hide the relief in his voice.  “So it was…an accident?  That got you this way?”

“Of a sort,” Gregor allows, “certainly it was a…wrong place, wrong time situation.”

“Good,” Dean blurts, then grimaces, “No, shit, I don’t mean _good,_ I just mean—I was afraid—” Gregor kindly saves him from his fumbling, interrupting him by neatly getting to the heart of the matter.

“You were concerned that the Men of Letters, your literal and organizational forebears, might have deliberately done such a thing to me, in the course of various experiments.”

“Well—there was this dude named Cuthbert Sinclair who did some pretty fucked up shit.  I wouldn’t have put it past him to…”  Dean trails off, since frankly, he wouldn’t have put pretty much anything past that sadistic piece of shit.  Cas spares a sidelong glance for him and a quick shoulder squeeze when Dean shudders slightly.  He’s never quite forgotten what it felt like to, just for a moment, fear that he really might end up stuck forever as one of the living members of a _collection._

“Ah, yes.  I am—or was, I suppose—familiar with Mr. Sinclair.  He was indeed a…unique sort of man.” Gregor says diplomatically, but Dean can hear the distaste underlying his words.  He doesn’t even want to _ask_ what kind of horrors Gregor witnessed the man attempt—or more likely, complete.  A monster he may have been, but a genius nevertheless.  “In any event, I imagine if this had been deliberate, or even if any of the previous generations of Men of Letters had suspected that such a thing occurred, I’d have found myself neatly locked up in a cage in which my unusual longevity could have been studied.  Thankfully, nobody seems to particularly notice creatures they view as vermin.”  Gregor sounds surprisingly good-humored about being considered little better than living garbage by most humans, and Dean can kind of see why, given that it’s kept him safe and free of being a lab rat (lab cockroach?) for the past eighty years.

“Good point,” Dean allows, taking a moment to think about how little _he_ notices things like roaches and gnats and whatever.  Most insects, with the possible exception of mosquitos, which he slaughters without a moment of conscience.  Anything that makes him _itch_ like that is fair game.  As a Buddhist monk Dean once encountered on a hunt told him (immediately after smashing a mosquito on his own arm), ‘Buddhist respect for life does not apply to mosquitos and that is that.’* If even the Buddhists think mosquito-smashing is cool, Dean feels like he gets a pass for it.

“In any case,” Gregor says, “as I said, it was my curiosity that ultimately resulted in my…condition.  Most cockroaches are not necessarily the adventurous sort—”

“Like hobbits,” Dean mutters to Cas, who shushes him without looking at him.

“—and as a matter of simple self-preservation, tend to avoid humans whenever possible.  But, being somewhat more intelligent than the average of my species, if you will pardon me, I developed interest in what the Men of Letters were up to and would go on what seemed to me at the time quite ambitious adventures to spy on and observe the happenings within the bunker.”

“Like Bilbo,” Dean mutters to Cas, who swats his arm lightly.

“There was, to be honest, not very much to observe but for games of chess,” Gregor goes on, mild amusement in his tone, “until a woman named Dorothy Baum came to the bunker.” 

Dean’s so surprised he almost bolts off the couch.  Of all the random-ass shit, somehow the Oz case figures into this?  Gregor tips a knowing antenna in Dean’s direction.  He’s been around all along, presumably he knows how the Wicked Witch shit shook out just a few years back.

“Yes, that’s right,” Gregor acknowledges.  “I was intrigued enough by her sudden appearance to stick close by and try to observe the goings on, but it was really mere chance—and luck, though whether good or bad is up for debate—that I happened to be at the epicenter of things at the penultimate moment.”

“Huh,” Dean mutters, thinking that maybe he can sort of start to see an outline of where this is going, but if he’s right—wow.  It would be pretty fucking unprecedented.  Honestly, it’s pretty fucking unprecedented no matter what.  The only _humans_ Dean’s encountered who’ve scratched at immortality —or at least significant longevity—are those who’ve delved deep into pretty dark magics.  He’s never heard of any animal who’s gotten there, although he supposes that doesn’t mean they’re not out there.

“To abbreviate something of a long story—or at least to gloss over the boring bits—” Cas chuckles a little and casts a sidelong glance at Dean.  Dean’s pretty sure there’s an insulting implication there, that he can’t stay focused during so-called ‘boring bits,’ but he guesses Cas has a point, since he’s been doing a lot of interrupting, “Peter Jenkins and James Haggerty, who I had come to know and have some fondness for over months of observation (although I acknowledge it was entirely a one-sided relationship, as they were quite unaware of my existence and wouldn’t have found it noteworthy had they noticed me at all)…well, Jenkins in particular—there was something about him.  Although I couldn’t understand much of what they talked about, I…felt a kinship with him.  When the Wicked Witch possessed him—well, Haggerty ultimately had no choice, I know that, but…I will not pretend that Jenkins’ death did not come as a crushing blow.  I happened to be in the room at the time, drawn by curiosity as to the newcomer and her purpose.  In my grief and rage at what the Wicked Witch had done, I pursued her as best I could through the bunker.  I can’t imagine what I thought I might _do,_ as I possessed none of the knowledge or wisdom—not to mention the _size—_ of those she had so easily overpowered already.  It was not rational, but then, while grief has many faces, rationality is rarely one of them.”

Here, Gregor pauses for breath, casting a meaningful glance at Dean.  By some metrics it could be considered an accusation—Dean can’t count the number of times loss has pushed him into irrational, grief-driven, rage-induced action (his furious rampage after Kevin’s death comes immediately to mind), and Gregor’s been here to witness at least the last four or five years of it—but it looks more like solidarity.  Dean gives him a small nod, acknowledgement and kinship in one.  Gregor chuckles, a little ruefully, a little bitterly, then squares himself to go on.

“Had I known what Dorothy was cooking up in the lab, I might have thought twice about my pursuit, but then again, perhaps not.  Had my timing been only a few seconds different in either direction, the outcome would likely have been very different.  Had I managed to make it into the room prior to Dorothy activating the spell, I imagine I might have been caught up with it entirely and sucked into the bottle, in stasis with them for decades, only to be released inadvertently just a few years ago.  Had I been further down the hallway, I expect I would’ve been unaffected entirely.  The other insectile residents of the bunker were untouched by it.  From some many years of research—with the help of generations of friends like Stuart, who were strong enough to knock down books, to turn pages for me while I read—I have, at least, theories, if no true confirmation of what happened and how.

“As far as I can deduce,” Gregor continues, and Dean is pretty damn sure he sees exactly where this is going now, and holy _shit,_ “my precise positioning—at the doorway of the room, but not within it, left me susceptible to the effects of the curse, but not entirely bound by it in the same way, that is to say, not sucked into the bottle.  Or it may have had nothing to do with precise positioning at all.  Another theory is that, as the spell was soul-based, I was not affected in the same way.  Human literature presupposes that creatures such as myself are not endowed with souls, and that may be so.  Or perhaps we are ensouled, but our souls are distinct enough from those of humans that the spell worked differently on me.  I do not know, I can only guess.  In any event, in the doorway I was as Dorothy put the spell into effect.  Her soul was tied to that of the Wicked Witch, both of them bound up together in the jar and held static until their release so many years later.  What I _can_ tell you for certain is what I experienced.”

Dean is scarcely aware of holding his breath, and he’s pretty sure that next to him, Cas is doing the same.  Granted, the angel doesn’t actually _need_ to breathe, but he generally makes a habit of it anyway.  They are both held spellbound by the story, waiting for the final details, since the shape of the puzzle has come clear.

“I found my way to the lab just as the Wicked Witch did, just as Dorothy cast the spell.  I was in the doorway, not quite within the room but not quite outside of it either.  I felt—still, after so many years, I find it difficult to describe it.  I watched as Dorothy and the Witch were sucked into the bottle, and as it happened, I felt something rush over, rush _through_ me, something impossibly powerful.  I do not know whether I lost consciousness or was merely addled by the power of the spell.  I do not know how much time went by.  What I do know is that when I awoke, or got my wits about me, I was alone.

“I knew that something powerful had happened, but initially I imagined that I had somehow avoided any ill effects.  Nothing in me seemed to have changed, and indeed, nothing had—nor ever would again. 

“I thought, for a time, when you freed Dorothy and the Wicked Witch, the dissolution of the spell might free me from its effects as well.  That perhaps I might finally be allowed to age normally and die a natural death—but that misconception was soon cured.  I remain just as unchanged and unchanging as I did the very day the spell was cast.  Its unforeseen effects on me are not so easily dispelled, it seems, if you will pardon the pun.”

Dean chuckles a little, but it sounds uneasy to his ears.  He doesn’t spend a whole lot of time pondering immortality, and maybe it’s no wonder, since he’s had to spend so much time aggressively encountering his own mortality (however temporary it’s been so far), but for the first time he’s really getting the sense that the inability to die is at least as much of a curse as it is a blessing. 

“So, as you now know, I go on like this, indefinitely, watching generations of cockroaches come and go, like but also entirely unlike me.  It has been something of a lonely existence, although I am never entirely without friends,” he adds, tipping an affectionate antenna in the direction of Stuart, who speaks up for the first time in many minutes.

“Aye, my friend, and ye ne’er will be if I’ve anything to say about it.  I willna live forever, but I will introduce ye to my children when they are grown, and they will introduce ye to theirs, as we have for generations.”

“Indeed,” Gregor says fondly, “Stuart’s forebears have been my closest companions for some many years now, although I will admit to feeling rather closer to Stuart than most.”

Dean’s pretty sure if rats could blush, Stuart would be blushing, but instead he settles for padding closer and nudging the roach warmly with the tip of his nose.  Gregor chuckles, rocked on his feet by even that gentle touch, but clearly used to the somewhat bumbling affection of the rat.

“And that is my story,” Gregor says, somehow managing to turn his attention back to Dean and Cas without seeming dismissive of his rodent friend.  “And I imagine it brings up as many questions as it answers.”

“Wait, exactly how far have you pushed this whole can’t-die thing?”  Dean demands, not entirely tactfully.  “Is this just a not dying of old age thing, or have there been—”

“Oh, no.  No, this has been rather thoroughly tested through a number of unpleasant incidents.  There was a time in which I found my immortality rather a burden and resolved to see whether I couldn’t find a way around what I thought of at the time as a curse.  Despite getting fairly creative, I have yet to find any kind of ill-treatment or mutilation I cannot survive and regenerate from.”

“Yikes,” Dean says, unable to come up with a better response despite how his heart aches for his friend and the knowledge that there was a time that repeated suicide attempts seemed like his best option.  “That sounds like a pretty miserable series of experiments.”

“It was, but I gave that up several decades ago and opted to make the best of an unwelcome situation.  Of course, that doesn’t mean there have been no…accidents since then.”  There’s something about his voice…

“Accidents.” Dean says, frowning—not quite a question but not exactly _not_ a question either.

“Sam has also stepped on me,” the roach adds delicately. “Twice.”  Dean grimaces.

“Sorry about that, he, uh—”

“Did you know,” Gregor inquires darkly, apparently bearing the Winchesters no ill will and having already moved on, “that average, untampered-with cockroaches can survive for up to a week with no head?  I can assure you that this is accurate, having lost mine to a separate but unfortunate incident and for some unknown reason finding it necessary to wait until the point of ‘death’ for its regeneration.  It was…a challenging week.”

“I just bet,” Dean says, equal parts repulsed and fascinated.  “And for the record, your species is something else, man.”

“It is said,” the roach muses, “that we are even capable of surviving nuclear explosions, although I have never tested that supposition myself.  I imagine I would be a poor test of it, in any case, given that I appear able to survive _everything.”_

“Possibly not being entirely vaporized,” Cas frowns, “as there would be nothing but atoms left from which to regenerate, at that point.  Remarkable though that sort of regeneration would be, I recommend against testing it.  We’re rather partial to you and would prefer not to risk you on unnecessary experiments.”

“Not to mention,” Dean pipes up, slightly astonished to find that he’s actually the most practical one in the room for once, “the mechanics of setting up that kind of experiment would be…complicated.  I’m not keen on swiping a nuclear warhead or worse yet, somehow manipulating some idiot into detonating one.”

“I can think of one idiot who would be all-too-easily manipulated,” Cas says darkly.  Apart from his brief foray into Godhood, Cas has always been relatively apolitical, but the inauguration of the man Dean less-than-fondly refers to as Emperor Hirocheeto changed that rather abruptly.  To be fair, Dean’s done his fair share of egging Cas on when he really gets going.  His righteous fury is something to behold (even if Sam has been known to remark in an undertone that this particular turn-on is even weirder than Dean’s theoretically kinkier ones).  

“We digress, in any case,” Gregor says, good humor returning to his voice.  “Point being, while I cannot be entirely certain that I am truly immortal, nothing I have encountered has yet proven equal to the job of permanently maiming or killing me.”

“You’ve gotta know more about this bunker than any living or dead creature on the planet,” Dean realizes with a start.  Not only has Gregor been the bunker’s only permanent resident from its foundation to today, he’s also small enough to have wiggled his way into pretty much every nook and cranny—and warding designed to repel humans and supernatural creatures wouldn’t have any impact on him.

Gregor chuckles quietly, “and so I do,” he acknowledges simply, and that’s when yet another lightbulb goes on for Dean.

“You…didn’t find me in the ventilation system by accident, did you?”

There’s a brief pause in which Gregor is clearly considering how to answer, but in the end he opts for simple honesty.  “No, I didn’t.  A great-great-great-great-great-great-etc. nephew of mine happened to be in the library when you fell through the grate, and, as it is widely known that I like to keep track of all unusual occurrences inside the walls, hastened to inform me of what had happened.  Although I am of course familiar with your impressive survival skills—not to mention track record—I imagined that, given your new size, you would have no way of escaping the tunnels, and was concerned that injury was likely given the distance that you had fallen.  So I came to investigate.  I had to tread carefully, as I imagined that I was unlikely to be welcomed, and indeed guessed that I would be utterly terrifying to someone who was not used to seeing cockroaches at such proportions.  I was pleasantly surprised when you took to me almost immediately.”

“Dude,” Dean says fervently, “you literally saved my life.  Not just by accident.  You deliberately hunted me down to save my life, even after my brother _stepped_ on you.  TWICE.  You are…one hell of a guy,” he finishes lamely, because that’s wildly inadequate to what he’s really thinking, but he’s not exactly the most schmoopy guy out there (except maybe with Cas, sometimes.  That’s different).

“I think what Dean is attempting to say in his usual, er, gruff manner, Gregor, is…thank you.  Truly.  From both of us.  We owe you a debt that can never be repaid.”

“In a manner of speaking,” Gregor allows humorously, “that is true, as my life cannot actually be saved—I do, however, have something of a favor to ask of you, but we can attend to that later.  There’s no rush, I have nothing but time, and it will require you both to be full-sized.”

“I don’t suppose you have any idea how to make that happen?” Dean hazards, figuring if he did he’d have told Cas already, but willing to give it a go anyhow.

“Sadly, I do not.  The item in question was secured in its lockbox almost immediately after being brought to the bunker.  I had no opportunity to study it, and as Sam has no doubt already found, the information in the archives about it does not include any antidote to its effects.”

“It was worth a shot,” Dean sighs, then shifts, stretching a little.  He doesn’t think he moved at all during the meat of Gregor’s tale, and he can feel the stiffness in his muscles.

“It would not be exaggerating,” Cas says quietly, thoughtfully, “to say that you are essentially the guardian of the bunker, however unknown and unsung you have been to and by those humans who believe it is theirs.”

“I don’t know about that,” Gregor says modestly, but Dean can tell how pleased he is at this assessment.  “Certainly I know it well, and I have great affection for it.  Although it is the source of my curse, it is also my first and only home, my school, my playground, and my adventuring grounds.  If one is to be cursed in such a way, I can scarcely imagine a better place within which to have it happen.  I have been many things in the past eighty years, but I have never been _bored,_ and literature tells me that boredom is the primary difficulty with immortality.  Ask me in another thousand years and I may tell you a different story, if—but that is neither here nor there.”

Cas glances sharply at the roach, eyes narrowing as if he’s just lit on something, but before Dean has a chance to ask, the rhythmic vibrations that herald heavy footfalls starts to shudder through the floor.  “Shit,” Dean says, “Sam’s coming.  Better head for cover, man, wouldn’t want to make it an even three squishes.”

“Three is not an even number, Dean,” Cas says, sounding aggrieved, and Dean groans. 

“ _Priorities,_ Cas,” but even before the apologetic look has fully settled onto the angel’s face, Gregor is gone, rapidly scurrying into the shadows beneath the bed, tucking himself beside one of its thick legs where Sam is unlikely to spot him even if, for some unknown reason, he were to peek under there.

The vibrations are growing more pronounced, and now Dean can hear the thud-thud of Sam’s boots on the floor.

And that’s when it happens.  The sound of those boots, which since his transformation have been bizarrely loud but otherwise unremarkable, is suddenly making Dean decidedly…uneasy.  He shifts a little on the couch, shrinking back as if from a threat.  Cas glances at him, then back to the door, then does a rapid double-take.  “Dean?  Are you well?  You look—”

Dean never does get to find out how he looks, because several seconds later Sam comes through the doorway and turns on the light.  Up til now, the bedside lamp on Dean’s night table has been illuminating the pastel house and its surroundings in a pleasant, diffuse glow.  The overhead light is a hell of a lot brighter and harsher, and without any intention of doing so, Dean suddenly finds himself bolting at top speed.  He doesn’t even process what he’s doing until he abruptly finds himself tucked under the edge of the bed, lurking behind the same leg that Gregor has used to conceal himself.  He blinks at the roach.  “…the fuck just happened?” 

It’s a rhetorical question, but Gregor has an answer nonetheless.  “The potion,” he says simply, and just as Sam’s booming voice echoes through the room, Dean gets it. 

“Oh, _fuck,”_ he mutters, his shoulders starting to shake with silent laughter.

“Hey, Dean, Cas, I—what the hell?  Did Dean just scoot under the bed?”

“Um,” says Cas, whatever eloquence he usually claims entirely deserting him.  “It does appear so.  If you will give us a moment, Sam, I will go fetch him.  No need for you to strain your knees.  You are not getting any younger.”

“Gee, thanks, Cas,” Sam says, imparting those three words with every ounce of verbal bitchface he is capable of.

“My pleasure,” Cas says absently, striding across the floor and into the shade of the bed.  “Dean?”

“The _potion,_ Cas,” Dean tells him between giggles, “I took the fuckin’ potion.  With some of Gregor’s…essence, or whatever, in it.  Sam took it with some of Stuart’s hair and turned into a cheese-eating machine.  So I—”

“Have adopted certain cockroach instincts and characteristics.  Such as fleeing from bright lights.”

“Looks like it,” Dean says, trying to get himself under control and failing entirely.  He’s not quite sure why this seems so disproportionately hilarious, but sue him, it’s been a long couple of days.  Even Cas’s lips are starting to twitch a little. 

“I don’t suppose,” the angel says placidly, “either of you has any idea how to explain what just happened to Sam.”

“Er—I may have a thought,” Gregor says, something in his tone suggesting that his idea isn’t going to make this any less funny.

“Well don’t keep us in suspense,” Dean prompts, sniggering.

“If you were to say that you and Cas were…engaged in certain activities, and that you were in a state of partial undress—well, you are very small, and I doubt Sam can see you clearly enough to know for certain whether specific parts of your anatomy were indeed inside your clothing.  It would explain why you fled so precipitously, and is…not exactly unbelievable, if you will pardon the observation.”

“Genius,” Dean says admiringly, wiping his eyes and taking a deep breath to try to calm himself.  “Now let’s just hope I don’t suddenly do something else super roach-like in front of Sam.  Hey, what _are_ common roach-y behaviors and instincts?”

“That is not a question answerable in the time we have before Sam will grow impatient and ignore my warning not to look under here, and it would be best for now if he did not catch sight of Gregor,” Cas interrupts, and Dean sighs.

“Fair enough, okay.  Hang out, Gregor, once we get rid of him I’ve got about twenty thousand more questions for you if you’re game.”

“I have, as I said, nothing but time,” Gregor tells him with characteristic good humor, “and it would seem a shame to waste these hours in which we can communicate verbally, would it not?”

“Damn right,” Dean tells him, and with an affectionate pat to his carapace and a grimace of anticipation, ducks back out into the light, Cas hot on his heels.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *This particular line, “Buddhist respect for life does not apply to mosquitos and that is that” is directly borrowed from a Sri Lankan Parasitologist who was my sister’s host mother when she spent a semester in Sri Lanka during college many years ago.  Tiny Sri Lankan Buddhist woman who had absolutely no problem with ruthlessly massacring mosquitos.  My kind of woman.  Anyway, the line’s just too good not to use.
> 
> ~*~
> 
> I hope you enjoyed hearing the tale of our unlikely friend. Do me a favor and toss me a comment if you're so inclined; it reminds me that people are still invested in this thing, even if it's been forever, and helps motivate me to keep at it.


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